Molly's Millions (22 page)

Marty picked up a copy of
Vive!
first thing on Monday morning and threw it down on the dining table at the bed and breakfast.

‘She’s been to some donkey sanctuary near Branscombe,’ he said, landing heavily in an old wooden chair.

‘Well, that’s it, then,’ Magnus said, his voice weary.

‘What do you mean –
that’s it
?’ Old Bailey asked, eyes narrowed as his mouth worked over his third slice of toast. He never normally ate such a hearty breakfast but he was paying for it so he was damn well sure he was going to eat everything that was presented to him.

‘Animals,’ Magnus said.

‘I think you might be right,’ Marty nodded, and Carolyn couldn’t help but smile. She’d heard about Molly’s animal antics before. Throughout her childhood, Molly had never been able to hold on to a pound whereas Marty would fill his piggy bank to bursting point. If Molly had any money, she’d
join Greenpeace, the Young Ornithologists’ Club or Llamas in Need. Marty would often ask, ‘What about a rainy day, Moll?’ and his sister would answer, ‘Charities have rainy days
every
day.’

Yes, Carolyn thought, the Baileys would be lucky if there was any money left after Molly’s trip to the donkey sanctuary.

‘So what should we do now?’ Magnus asked. ‘We can’t have come all this way for nothing.’

Marty pursed his lip. ‘It seems to me that she’s got a definite route in mind. This Mackenzie fellow’s mentioned it too. And she could very well be heading for London.’

‘What’s she going to do there?’ Old Bailey asked.

‘I don’t know! How am
I
meant to know?’

‘She’s your sister!’ Old Bailey barked back as if forgetting that he was related to Molly as well.

‘I’m only telling you what I’ve read.’

‘Well, I think it’s a good idea,’ Magnus said sagely. ‘We need to find some way of getting ahead of Molly instead of arriving after she’s already left.’

‘But how are we going to find her in London?’ Old Bailey asked. ‘It isn’t exactly Penrith, is it?’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Marty agreed. ‘But I rather have a feeling that she’s going to make herself known pretty soon.’

Carolyn glared at Marty. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘Just a feeling,’ he said. ‘I am her brother, aren’t I?’

Molly and Jo had booked into The Portland Hotel and were working their way through heavily buttered croissants and hot chocolate. They hadn’t been able to part company when they’d reached London the night before. Instead, they’d booked into the hotel and Molly had treated them both to a
slap-up meal in Chinatown.

Molly liked Jo. With her fabulously long blonde pigtails, she reminded Molly of a yellow iris. She also helped to take Molly’s mind off why she had come to London and that could only be a good thing.

‘So,’ Jo said, croissant flaking down the front of yet another black T-shirt, ‘what are we doing today?’

Molly smiled, liking the fact that they had become a ‘we’ already. ‘I thought we’d take a look round,’ she said.

‘Sounds good.’

Molly nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘But,’ Jo said, wiping her mouth with a napkin, ‘when are you going to see your mother?’

Molly took a mouthful of chocolate and blinked hard. Jo had an unnerving habit of going straight to the heart of an issue, Molly had noticed. ‘Tomorrow,’ she said, ‘definitely tomorrow.’

‘They say tomorrow never comes,’ Jo pointed out.

‘It will,’ Molly said.

The Baileys left Devon as soon as Old Bailey had cleared everyone’s plate and asked for a third cup of tea.

‘You know you’ll need endless toilet stops now,’ Marty said, huffily piling the overnight bags into the car.

‘My bladder’s stronger than an old leather suitcase,’ Old Bailey snorted. Carolyn grimaced. Images of Old Bailey’s bladder first thing in the morning were more than she could stomach. She’d already had a bout of morning sickness, hidden from Marty by putting breakfast TV on full volume.

Carolyn stared at Old Bailey as he climbed into the car. He was wearing that disgusting shirt with the frayed collar
and middle button missing through which his enormous belly shone pinkly to the world. His trousers were no better. Carolyn could only guess at their original colour. They’d been stitched and patched to within an inch of their life. There was barely a scrap of the original material left. How could he bear to put his legs into them? And his socks! They looked more like fishnets.

Getting into the passenger seat and doing her seat belt up for what seemed like the hundredth time that summer, she sighed, wondering what London had in store for them and wondering if she had enough money in her bank account to treat herself to a seriously short haircut in a fancy London boutique.

Molly had never heard of The Monument before and, halfway up the three hundred and eleven stairs, was beginning to wish that she and Jo had stayed on the tour bus. After walking the length of Oxford Street, Regent Street, and doing a tour of both Hyde Park and Green Park, Molly was shattered. She’d never done so much walking in her life and she was exhausted from carrying Fizz around all day to prevent tourists stepping on his little white paws. But the climb up The Monument was worth it. The view over the River Thames to Tower Bridge and Canary Wharf quite took their breath away. In the other direction, they could just make out the London Eye and, directly underneath them, were what appeared to be a thousand offices. Molly frowned at the ugliness of the buildings. There wasn’t a single beautiful one amongst them. All were ugly lumps of concrete.

Jo snapped some pictures as Molly dared to gaze down to the street below. They were dizzyingly high and she was glad
that there was a safety cage around them to prevent accidents. Pulling out a tissue from her pocket to wipe away a speck of city dust, a chewing-gum wrapper fell from her pocket through the railings. Watching as it twisted and turned on its long descent to street level, Molly smiled, remembering the shower of confetti at the Dorset wedding.

Searching for the other part of the wrapper, Molly surreptitiously let it take flight through the railings. It fell, graceful as an airborne ballerina.

‘What are you looking at?’ Jo asked, startling Molly.

‘Nothing,’ she said, hoping Jo didn’t think she was some kind of perverted litterbug.

‘Shall we go and get something to eat? I’m starving.’

Molly nodded and took one last look down the grand white column of The Monument. She could feel her heart accelerate, and bit her lip to prevent herself from smiling too much.

She’d found the perfect platform for her grand finale.

Tomorrow did come. Waking up in her hotel room, Molly’s first thought was that tomorrow was now today, and today was the day when she’d try to find her mother. For a moment, she had an overwhelming desire to snuggle back down under the fresh cotton sheets and slip into sleep again, but she didn’t. With a quick push, she was up and out of bed.

Padding through to the bathroom, she threw herself under the shower, letting the hot water plaster her curls to her face and turn her flesh red. Even in the height of summer, Molly adored hot showers. She’d pay for it someday, she knew, with varicose veins or whatever, but the feeling was just too sensational to worry about possible side effects and, for a few brief minutes, it helped to calm her down.

After drying and dressing, Molly called on Jo and they went down to breakfast together.

‘Moll,’ Jo said, buttering a croissant the size of a human head, ‘I can’t thank you enough for this holiday. I’d never
have been able to stay here under my own steam.’

Molly smiled.

‘Are you OK?’ Jo asked, flicking a blonde pigtail over her shoulder.

Molly nodded. ‘I’m fine.’

Jo cocked her head to one side in a manner that reminded Molly of Fizz. ‘You still nervous?’

Molly looked up and held her gaze. ‘I haven’t stopped shaking since I woke up.’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Jo asked.

‘Thanks, but no. I have to do this on my own.’

Jo poured some more tea out.

‘What will you do today?’ Molly asked.

‘Thought I might have a look round the galleries. Find something to do for free, you know.’

Molly nodded. She knew, only too well, what that felt like. Reaching into her handbag she grabbed hold of an envelope, which she slid across the table. ‘For you,’ she said.

Jo’s mouth fell open. ‘What’s this?’

‘Just a little thank you.’

Jo opened the creamy envelope and smiled as a yellow gerbera fell onto the breakfast table. ‘Molly!’ she gasped. ‘I can’t take this.’

‘Of course you can!’

‘It’s too much!’

‘I thought you said you could never have
too much
?’

‘But I didn’t mean for you to—’

‘I know you didn’t,’ Molly laughed. ‘But I’ve really enjoyed your company and I just wanted to thank you.’

‘Boy, I’ve never seen a thank-you present like this before,’ Jo said, her eyes still wide as she gazed at the envelope stuffed
with cash.

‘There’s a cheque in there too – to help towards university.’

‘Really?’

Molly nodded again.

‘You shouldn’t have – I mean – you’re too kind – I don’t know what to say!’

‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Molly said, reaching across the table and giving her hand a light squeeze. ‘Now,’ Molly said, with a deep intake of breath, ‘I’ve got to get going.’

After eating a horrible service-station sandwich for breakfast, Tom looked down longingly at his mobile phone. His fingers were itching to ring Molly’s number. It was quite incredible, he thought, how, if he rang her number, the beam would leap up into the sky to some invisible satellite where it would about-turn and beam back down to find Molly. If only he could follow that beam and find Molly too, he thought. Where was she?

He took a mouthful of orange juice to wash away the taste of plastic cheese.

‘I think we should head to London,’ he told Flora.

‘Can we visit the Egyptian mummies?’

‘If we’ve got time,’ Tom said.

‘If we leave now, we could visit them today.’

‘Possibly,’ Tom said, not relishing the idea of a museum visit, ‘but don’t build your hopes up. We may have work to do.’

‘You’re
always
working, Daddy,’ Flora said.

‘But I thought you liked this job.’

‘Oh, I do. And I hope we get to meet Molly soon. Do you think we will?’ Flora asked.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do.’ Tom looked thoughtful for a moment. Ever since Molly had rung him, he’d been in the strangest of moods. And then last night…

He shook his head. It had been the craziest thing. He hadn’t dreamt of Juliette Binoche or Nicole Kidman. He hadn’t even dreamt of fame and fortune for himself. Oh, no. He’d dreamt of Molly Bailey.

Molly parked in a backstreet in Holborn and, after placing Fizz on his lead, left the car in what she hoped was the right direction. London wasn’t the best of places to be in during midsummer. Heat seemed to rise in columns from the street, and the barking of car horns was deafening. Once again, Molly wondered what had brought her mother to such a place.

Taking out her A–Z, Molly crossed a wide road and found herself in a street worthy of a Dickens novel. The shopfronts were beautiful in a scruffy sort of way. Each looked as if it could do with a couple of cans of paint, but they had all the more character for it. There was a bookshop, a very expensive-looking shoe shop, a hairdresser’s, a gallery and a florist’s. A florist’s! Why hadn’t Molly guessed? She didn’t even need to see what number it was because she knew it was where her mother was.

For a moment, she stood on the opposite side of the road as if she’d been nailed into place. Fizz looked up at her, waiting for her to make up her mind.

‘In a minute,’ she said, more to herself than to him. ‘Just give me a minute.’

Molly couldn’t believe what she was looking at. This was her mother’s home and it was the spitting image of her own florist’s up in the Eden Valley. Like Molly, it seemed Cynthia’s objective in life was to make colour where there was none, but Molly had never thought for a moment that her mother had a florist’s. It was too bizarre. It was too close. It was inevitable, she supposed.

She crossed the road with Fizz tripping alongside her and, taking a deep breath, entered the florist’s.

There was nobody around but Molly could hear voices in a room at the back of the shop. She took in the flower displays, much the same as in The Bloom Room, and realised that her heart was thumping and her mouth was quite dry.

‘Can I help you?’ a woman’s voice suddenly asked.

Molly turned round and saw a woman emerge from behind an enormous fig tree. She had fine silver hair like a delicate halo, and conker-brown eyes stared out of a rosy face. Other than the hair, it was like staring at her very own reflection.

‘Mother?’ Molly said tentatively.

‘Molly!’ Cynthia’s eyes widened and her mouth slid into a beautiful smile. ‘I can’t believe it!’

Molly tucked her fingers into tight balls to stop herself from shaking.

‘How did you find me?’ Cynthia asked. ‘I mean, how long have you known I was here?’

‘Only a few days,’ Molly said, not really wanting to confess that, after sixteen years of silence, she’d had to resort to hiring a private detective.

‘Why didn’t you call me?’ she asked, and Molly could see that her eyes had filled with tears. ‘You should have called
me.’

‘Why didn’t
you
call
me?
’ Molly asked, and then blushed. She hadn’t meant to come out with such a question.

Cynthia’s mouth opened a fraction but no words came out.

‘I wanted to talk to you – so many times,’ Molly said, in a voice that was strangely controlled. ‘Where were you? Where did you go?’

‘Here,’ Cynthia said. ‘I was here.’

‘Not all the time.’

‘No,’ Cynthia said. ‘You’re right. For the first few months, I didn’t even leave Cumbria. I wanted to keep an eye on you all – make sure you were OK before I left.’

‘And how did you know when we were OK?’ Molly asked, tears from long ago springing into her eyes. ‘How did you decide that?’

‘Molly! Don’t.’

Molly bit her lip and cast her eyes down to the floor. She shouldn’t have said that. This wasn’t what she’d thought would happen at all.

There was a moment’s silence when words seemed too painful to be used. Molly felt ashamed and wished she could take back what she had said.

‘And who’s this?’ Cynthia asked at last, blinking away her own tears as she walked across the shop to bend down and pat Fizz.

‘I just got him,’ Molly said quietly, realising that her questions weren’t going to be answered simply because she’d asked them. ‘His name’s Fizz.’

‘He’s gorgeous. I remember you always wanted a dog, didn’t you?’

Molly nodded, her mind somersaulting into the past for a brief moment.

‘A dog makes a family complete,’ her mother had once said.

‘Not when you go abroad,’ her father had replied.

‘But we never do,’ her mother had answered.

Molly looked at her mother now. Her rosy skin was creased with delicate lines around her eyes, and her hair didn’t seem to be as thick as Molly remembered.

‘I went grey years ago,’ Cynthia suddenly said, standing up again.

Molly’s eyes widened.

‘In case you were wondering. I don’t like to dye it.’

‘Oh.’ Molly wasn’t really sure how to respond.

‘You’ve let yours grow, I see. It suits you long,’ she said, her skin forming fine, whiskery lines at the edges of her eyes as she smiled again.

Before they could summon the courage to say anything more, a voice yelled from behind the floral partition behind the counter.

‘Who is it, Cyn?’

‘Come and see,’ she called. ‘Come through, Molly,’ she said, quickly wiping her eyes with the cuff of a sleeve before taking Molly’s hand as if it were merely moments, and not years, since she’d last held it.

They walked through to the back, passing great silver buckets of flowers, the familiar perfumes making Molly feel homesick yet at ease at the same time.

‘Come and see who’s here,’ Cynthia said, as they entered a small kitchen.

Molly saw a tall, fair-haired man with his hands in a sink,
washing-up.

‘Robert,’ Cynthia said, ‘this is Molly.’

‘
Molly!
’ he said, his voice exiting his mouth like an ignited firework.

‘Yes! I can’t quite believe it either.’ Cynthia smiled before turning to Molly. ‘Molly, I’d like to introduce you to Robert, my husband.’

Molly watched as he took his hands out of the soapy water and dried them on a towel slung over his shoulder.

‘Very pleased to meet you, Molly,’ he said, shaking her hand.

‘And you,’ Molly said, looking up into his kind face. But he was no longer looking at her – he was looking at Cynthia. For a few brief seconds, Molly watched as they communicated in a silent language that she couldn’t follow at all.

Finally, Cynthia nodded. ‘Molly,’ she said, ‘Robert is Marty’s father.’