Molly's Millions (5 page)

Tom was running around like a man possessed. He’d almost forgotten Flora was sitting in the front room in his hurry to get things organised.

‘The first thing we’ve got to do is pack,’ he said, beating the palm of his left hand with his right as if choreographing a group of invisible dancers.

Flora picked up her pink suitcase and pointed to it. ‘I’ve packed already – look!’

‘Yes. Good,’ Tom said absent-mindedly. ‘Now, what do
I
need?’

‘Clothes?’

‘Clothes,’ Tom repeated. ‘Yes,’ he said, as if methodically packing in his brain.

Flora followed him upstairs and watched as he emptied his worldly goods out onto the bed. It was terrible. It was as if all the rejects from the local charity shop had been dumped onto his duvet.

 ‘There’s a big hole in this one,’ Flora said, picking up an old denim shirt.

‘And there’s an even bigger one in this one!’ Tom said.

Flora giggled as he wiggled his finger through it. ‘Shall we go shopping?’ she suggested, the credit-card-pushing genes of her mother already apparent.

‘No. We haven’t time,’ Tom said, not bothering to add that he didn’t have the money either. ‘Chuck these in that sports bag over there,’ he said, selecting six shirts that had seen better days five years ago, ‘and empty that top drawer too.’

Tom ventured into the ‘everything’ room and began to sift through the mountains of notepads on the floor. How many would he need? All of them? He knelt down to choose.

‘Daddy!’ Flora gasped as she poked her head round the door. ‘You really should tidy your room!’

He turned round and saw her stern face. ‘Who’s the parent here?’ he asked, but he couldn’t keep the laugh out of his voice.

‘If this was
my
room, Mummy wouldn’t let me have any tea until I’d tidied it.’

‘Well, I don’t live with Mummy anymore, do I?’ he said somewhat tersely, and instantly regretted it as he saw a dark shadow pass over Flora’s face.

He got up off the floor and walked across the room to ruffle her hair. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered, kissing the top of her head. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘’Sokay,’ she said. ‘None of my friends’ parents live together. I don’t mind.’

Tom gave her a squeeze. God, he thought, what a mess, and he wasn’t talking about the state of his room.

‘It means I get to have two homes instead of just one,’ she
added.

Tom looked down at her. Was this child for real? How could one be so rational at the age of ten? He was sure he hadn’t been half as wise when he was a child.

‘Well, for the next couple of weeks or so, we’re not going to have a proper home,’ he told her. ‘Are you sure you still want to come with me?’

‘You wouldn’t want to go on your own, would you?’ she asked, looking up at him with questioning eyes.

‘Nah!’ he said. ‘That wouldn’t be much fun, would it?’

‘So when do we go?’

‘After lunch,’ Tom said and then frowned. Was there actually any food in the house?

They went downstairs to find out. He knew Flora was used to eating out of tins when she stayed with him but he’d like to be able to offer her something a bit different just once.

‘What would you like?’ he asked over his shoulder, crossing his fingers that he’d be able to find it.

‘I’m not really that hungry,’ she said, ‘but I wouldn’t mind some tomato soup.’

Tom smiled as he opened a cupboard. Tomato soup was the right answer.

Molly could smell soup – tomato soup – floating up through the floorboards of the bed and breakfast. It was ten-thirty in the evening and the owner was probably sitting down to tea at last.

Molly closed her eyes and floated back into her past on the scent. She was sat at the enormous kitchen table in their house. She was ten years old.

It was a wet Saturday afternoon and Molly and Marty had had enough of each other’s company so Cynthia had called them into the kitchen.

Without saying a word, she placed a piece of paper before each of them, together with a pencil.

‘I’m too old to draw,’ Marty whined.

‘So am I,’ Molly said.

‘We’re not going to draw. We’re going to write,’ Cynthia said.

‘We write at school. I’m not writing on a Saturday,’ Marty complained.

Cynthia smiled at him. ‘It’s not school writing I want you to do.’

Molly looked up at her mother. ‘What, then?’

‘I want you to make a wish list of everything you want in the world.’

‘A wish list?’ Molly repeated.

‘Yes.’

‘What’s a wish list?’

Cynthia paused for a moment, her eyes wide and wise. ‘It’s a list of everything you want. For example, it could have things on it – like toys and games and bikes, but it must also have other things too – like happiness, a fulfilling job and good luck.’

‘That sounds like a strange list to me,’ Marty observed.

‘The stranger the better,’ Cynthia laughed. ‘I want you to
really
think about everything you want in the world.’

Molly and Marty stared at their mother. How did she come up with these ideas? Did she have a secret book somewhere on how to keep children amused on wet afternoons?

‘I’ll make us some soup whilst you’re doing it,’ she said,
leaving them to look at their blank sheets of paper with bemused faces.

As Cynthia was heating the soup, Molly and Marty covered their sheets of paper in an endless stream of wishes. The thick smell of tomato rose from the hob and flooded their nostrils with a homely warmth. It was only an ordinary can of tomato soup but something mysterious and wonderful happened in between opening the can and serving it which made it taste like nothing else in the world.

‘Have you written your lists?’ Cynthia asked, pausing a few minutes later with their bowls of soup, as if she meant to trade them for their wishes.

‘Yes,’ Molly said, her mouth practically watering at the savoury scent.

‘I’ve got nearly thirty!’ Marty boasted.

‘Good,’ Cynthia said. ‘Now, before you have your soup, I want you to read your lists to yourself, but I don’t want to know what’s on them.’

Molly and Marty obeyed, Molly wondering if her mother was about to perform some magic trick on them and guess their lists.

‘Have you read them?’ she asked, and Molly and Marty nodded. ‘Know them by heart?’ Again they nodded. ‘Right. Now tear them up.’

‘What?’ Marty’s eyes narrowed.

‘Really?’ Molly’s eyes widened.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’ Marty asked.

‘Because I don’t want you to think about what
you
want, because that’s not always the most important thing in the world.’ She smiled as she saw their faces cloud over. ‘What
I
really
want you to do is to make a wish list for somebody else, listing what you wish
them
to have in their lives. You could do each other’s if you like.’ She put the soup down in front of them and then handed them another piece of paper each.

Marty pulled a sour face and Molly pulled one back at him.

‘I’m going to do yours,’ Molly told her mum.

‘All right,’ she said, handing them a spoon each. ‘Whose are you going to do, Marty?’

He looked thoughtful for a moment. Molly watched him closely, trying to read the thoughts somersaulting round his brain.

‘Nobody’s,’ he said, his voice short and surly. ‘It’s a waste of time.’

Nothing had changed there then, Molly thought, bending to tickle Fizz’s ears and getting another whiff of soup from the kitchen below her bedroom. Even today, whenever Molly smelt tomato soup, she couldn’t help but think of her wish list. Had that been her mother’s intention, she wondered? Did Marty still think of it too? She’d never found out what had been on her brother’s list but it had certainly been a great deal longer than her own. He’d almost worn his pencil down writing it.

She tried to remember what she’d put on her list. There’d been the obvious kid stuff but what had the other wishes been, and what had been on her list for her mother? It hadn’t included a life without them, had it? She hadn’t wished for her mother to leave them the very next year.

Molly looked out of her window. Darkness had claimed
the land. The hills were now part of the sky but she could still feel their presence, brooding and bruising. Somewhere, out in all that darkness, was her mother. What would she advise her to do now, Molly wondered? Was this journey the most perfect wish list ever?

‘I still don’t understand why you have to give up Dylan,’ Flora said, strapping herself into the passenger seat in the front of the car.

Tom got in next to her and sighed. ‘Because there’s no way I’m giving up Presley or Isaak.’

Flora puffed her cheeks out. ‘What does Mike want with Dylan, anyway?’

Tom put his seat belt on and started up the car. ‘It’s what’s called collateral.’

‘Collaterwhat?’

‘Collateral. It’s like an exchange: I swap something precious of mine for something precious of his because I can’t afford to pay him any money.’

‘Doesn’t he trust you, then?’

‘No.’

Flora’s mouth formed a perfect ‘o’. ‘Why?’

‘Don’t ask.’

Flora’s ‘o’ turned into a stern line. How could somebody not trust her father?

‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘Dylan isn’t as precious as Presley or Isaak, and I need his laptop. I can’t write a story on a guitar, can I? Anyway, a laptop’s smaller. I couldn’t fit all the guitars in this car.’

‘Why don’t you get a bigger car?’ Flora asked with the innocence of someone who’s never had to earn any money.

‘Because I like this one,’ Tom lied, wishing Flora didn’t have quite so many questions that needed answering.

‘Jean-Philippe’s is much bigger.’

‘I’ve no doubt it is,’ Tom said through gritted teeth.

‘He lets me call him JP,’ Flora added, as if that was the epitome of cool.

‘Does he?’

Flora nodded. ‘And he has a cushion for me for the front seat.’

‘You want a cushion?’ Tom slowed the car down. There was a cushion somewhere in the car and, if Jean-Philippe gave his daughter a cushion, it was the least he could do.

‘It’s all right, Daddy.’

‘No, Flo, if you want a cushion, I can get you a cushion.’ He pulled over and parked, undoing his seat belt so that he could gymnast behind his seat.

‘But I don’t really need one.’

Tom pulled himself up from the strange position he’d got himself into and looked at her. ‘You
don’t
want a cushion?’

‘Nah!’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Cushions are for babies. JP has no idea, really, does he?’

Tom laughed as he did his seat belt up again. ‘No. He doesn’t,’ he said. ‘How could he possibly have mistaken you
for anything other than a young lady?’

Twenty minutes later, with Dylan duly swapped for Mike’s laptop, they hit the road. It was the perfect day to travel, Tom thought, driving with the window wound down, the warm wind blowing the cobwebs away, and his job had provided him ample opportunities to collect cobwebs. His whole body felt full of them. Well, now it was time to break free and to go in search of the person he knew he could be.

He tried not to think of the hundreds of miles that lay ahead of them: of the possible delays, accidents, roadworks, nasty service areas and petrol cost. Instead, he focused on the positive things: the sense of freedom, the glorious sunshine, the possibility of an exciting story. And his daughter, Flora.

He glanced quickly at her. She was staring out of her window, humming to a song on the radio he’d never heard before. Probably some band who needed at least five members to sing a song. Not like his great idols. Not like Chris Isaak.

The only thing he hadn’t banked on with having his daughter with him was the number of stops she would request. Were all girls the same? he wondered, as he pulled into the third service station. The journey was going to take far longer than he’d anticipated if they had to stop every hour or so.

Flicking through a magazine in a shop that sold everything, Tom waited for Flora to surface from the Ladies’. He wasn’t keen on her going in there on her own but what choice did he have? She wasn’t small enough for him to take her into the Gents’ with him, and he’d get himself into terrible trouble if he followed her into the Ladies’ so he positioned himself in the shop from where he could keep an eye on things.

He watched an old lady wander in. She was probably
all right: no threat there. Then, a teenager with a nose ring sashayed in behind her. Tom felt a wave of panic rippling through his body. He put the magazine back on the rack but ended up dropping it because he didn’t want to remove his eyes from the ladies’ toilets. Was this teenager a potential kidnapper? A murderer? All sorts of wild thoughts whipped through his brain as he left the shop, legging it across the hallway to stand outside the toilets, craning to hear signs of Flora.

He heard a hand-dryer. Flora? It was impossible to tell with the amount of noise around him. But no, it wasn’t Flora; it was the old woman.

‘Excuse me,’ Tom said, his voice croaky in his dry throat. ‘Did you see a little girl in there?’

The old woman glared at him as if he were some kind of pervert.

‘She’s my daughter,’ he explained, but the old woman wasn’t interested.

He had no choice but to wait. What was taking her so long? What did the female of the species do in toilets? With men, it was in and out in two shakes, so to speak, but he had a feeling that women had a hairdo and manicure somewhere between the hand-drying and the departing bit.

Another toilet flushed. Tom felt his heartbeat accelerate.

‘Flora?’ he called out as he heard the sound of water again. Then the hand-dryer. God, what a nightmare. He was never letting his daughter out of his sight again.

‘Daddy?’

Tom’s eyes doubled in size as he saw her walking out.

‘Flora?
Where
have you been?’

She looked at him as if he had completely lost his head.
‘I’ve been to the toilet,’ she said. ‘I told you.’

Tom nodded, his heartbeat slowly returning to normality. She’d been to the toilet, that was all. She was fine; he was stupid. This was what being a parent was all about, wasn’t it?

He scratched his head and almost went flying when the teenager with the nose ring and attitude knocked into him.

‘Cool!’ Flora sighed. ‘Did you see her nose ring?’

‘Yes. It’s disgusting.’

‘Can I have one?’

‘No, you can’t,’ Tom said, placing a very firm hand in the small of Flora’s back and propelling her out to the car park.

It was Saturday again and Carolyn opened her eyes and shut them immediately as a heavenly column of sun flooded the bedroom. They’d only had an opportunity to partially close the curtains as they’d charged into the bedroom after a marathon kissing session on the sofa, and the startling sunshine hurt her eyes after her blissful doze.

She allowed herself a little smile as she looked at Marty. His face was as flushed as a summer strawberry but that wasn’t surprising really. For the best part of an hour, she’d had his undivided attention. No money talk. No bill talk. Just bliss.

She traced her finger along his jawline and did a little tap dance with her fingers on his mouth, giggling as he flinched.

‘Wake up, sleepyhead,’ she whispered, watching as his eyes opened. She’d never seen eyes quite so brown before. They were like the bitterest chocolate and his lashes were the sort women spent a fortune trying to achieve. Why was that? Why were men given eyelashes like that? Carolyn wondered. Her own were as pale as daisies.

‘What time is it?’ Marty asked.

Carolyn yawned and leant up on an elbow to see her alarm clock. ‘Just after one.’

‘NO!’

‘Yes!’

‘Damnation!’ Marty was up and out of the bed in a flash – quite literally.

‘Marty! Where are you going?’

‘We’re late for Granddad’s,’ he said, streaking into the en suite.

Carolyn groaned. She’d almost forgotten about their weekly date with doom. Almost, but not quite. How could one forget the social low-spot of the week?

‘Marty?’ she shouted above the hiss of the shower. He couldn’t hear so she padded through. ‘What are you rushing for? We’ve got all day.’ She pulled back the shower curtain.

‘Caro! Don’t do that! The floor will get wet.’

She bit her lip and tried again. ‘I’m not going with you, you know.’

Marty stopped lathering-up for a moment. ‘What?’

‘You heard me. I’m not coming with you.’

He turned the shower off and stood dripping for a moment. Carolyn passed him his towel. ‘We always go over on a Saturday,’ he said slowly, patting his hair dry.

‘You don’t have to tell
me
that.’

‘So what’s different about this weekend?’

Carolyn chewed her bottom lip as she tried to find the words to express how she really felt. ‘Nothing’s different about this weekend. It’s just that I’m fed up of the same old routine.’

‘Why haven’t you said anything before?’

Carolyn started. What was this? A caring Marty? It didn’t seem very likely. ‘Well, I know how much it means to you.’

Marty stepped out of the shower, quickly drying himself. ‘OK,’ he said, very calmly and very quietly. ‘We won’t go.’

Carolyn felt herself smiling. This was unbelievable. She’d never thought he’d be so understanding. If she’d thought, for half a minute, that all she had to do to get out of their boring routine was to say something, she wouldn’t have suffered in silence for so long.

‘Great,’ she said, watching as he hung his towel up and threw his body into his housecoat. He then stepped forward and planted a kiss on her forehead.

‘But we’ll have to go next weekend,’ he said. ‘We can’t miss two weekends in a row.’