Authors: Victoria Connelly
Robert discreetly offered to take Fizz for a walk and Cynthia led Molly up to their flat above the shop.
‘You mean Marty isn’t a Bailey?’ Molly asked a few minutes later, a mug of tea placed in her hands by her mother. It wasn’t as if she needed a dose of caffeine; her brain was stimulated enough.
‘He’s been brought up like a Bailey,’ Cynthia said, ‘but not by me.’
‘Did Dad know he wasn’t a Bailey?’
Cynthia nodded. ‘He never spoke about it, but he knew.’
‘And all the time you were in love with Robert?’
‘Don’t be angry with me, Molly.’
‘I’m not angry! I’m just…’ Molly looked round the room in exasperation as she tried to find the right vocabulary, ‘… bewildered!’ she finished.
‘I know it’s a lot to take in but he’s still your brother.’
‘But you left him! With a father that wasn’t his.’
‘That’s all in the past now.’
‘But it’s still a part of us,’ Molly said, not meaning to sound so angry but failing miserably.
Cynthia looked down at her hands neatly folded in her lap. She was perfectly calm, and Molly found it slightly unnerving.
‘Am
I
a Bailey?’ Molly asked.
‘Yes!’ her mother said, sounding somewhat startled by her question.
‘And are you going to tell Marty?’
‘If he asks me – yes. But I’m not sure he’d want to know the truth, and I don’t think Magnus would want him to know either.’
Molly stood up and walked over to the window, looking out into the street. Her mother had swapped family life in the beautiful Eden Valley for an ugly little flat above a shop in London. And the man she loved. Molly still couldn’t get her head around it.
‘But Marty is just so
Bailey-like
!’ she said, turning back to face Cynthia. ‘Yet I’m so like you – Dad’s always said so – and yet you weren’t around.’
Cynthia shrugged. ‘Molly, you want me to explain things to you that I can’t.’
There was a pause when nothing could be heard but the ticking of the clock above the mantelpiece. Cynthia had always loved clocks; had always been careful to mark the passage of time. Molly couldn’t help but notice the home furnishings, even after the bombshell her mother had dropped. She’d even noticed that they’d bought the same lamp from Laura Ashley.
‘Where are you staying?’ Cynthia asked.
‘The Portland.’
‘You can stay here, if you like.’
‘It’s OK. I won’t be in London much longer.’
Cynthia nodded, a hint of disappointment in her eyes. ‘I’ve been following your travels in
Vive!
,’ she said at last.
‘Have you?’
Cynthia nodded. ‘I would have done the same thing.’
‘I know,’ Molly said. ‘I could sense that. I knew it was the right thing to do.’
‘But you haven’t finished yet, have you?’
Molly gazed at the woman before her; a woman she hardly knew and yet knew like her own self.
‘No,’ Molly said. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘Yes,’ Cynthia nodded, as if she already knew.
There was another pause. Molly could feel her heart pounding as adrenalin was pushed round her body at an alarming rate. Half of her fear lay in what she might find herself saying next. She didn’t appear to be in control of things and that scared her. She tried to think of something safe to say – something that wouldn’t upset either of them.
‘Do you still keep in touch with Auntie Clara and Jess?’ Molly asked, suddenly remembering her trip to Bradford. It seemed an age ago since she’d climbed the stairs of the Moor View flats.
‘Of course,’ Cynthia said, getting up and picking a photo frame up from a highly polished sideboard. ‘Here. Jess’s wedding.’
Molly took the silver-framed photo and stared at the strangers in it. There was her mother, her hair still dark but streaked with silver, as if she’d walked through a cobweb. Next to her was Auntie Clara, her skin creased in a smile as
she beamed at Jess.
‘Jess!’ Molly said.
‘She’s quite the lady now,’ Cynthia said, ‘you wouldn’t recognise her.’
‘No,’ Molly said, and she felt as if she could cry again for all the years that had been lost. She didn’t know these people and yet she wanted to so much.
As if reading her mind, Cynthia scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to her.
‘Give them a call – they’d love to hear from you.’
Molly looked at the two phone numbers and nodded. ‘I will,’ she said. ‘And when did
you
get married?’ she asked, noticing a stunning ruby ring on her mother’s finger. It looked like one of her favourite roses.
‘Twelve years ago next month.’
Molly tried not to gasp. All this time, she’d had a stepfather and she hadn’t even known. ‘He seems nice,’ she said, not knowing what else she could say.
‘He is. He’s good and kind and patient. And he loves me.’
Molly was sure that those words weren’t chosen as opposites to the ones Cynthia would choose to describe Magnus, but it was hard not to make comparisons.
‘Did you ever love Father?’
Cynthia stared at Molly, her forehead crinkling in dismay. ‘Of
course
I did. We had you together, didn’t we?’
‘Are you sure?’ Molly asked, and immediately regretted it when she saw the pained expression on her mother’s face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s just, I can’t seem to get my head round this. I don’t understand.’
Cynthia sighed and sat down again. ‘How can I explain my life to you? How can I expect you to know what went on
when I don’t even understand myself? I didn’t plan for any of it to happen,’ Cynthia said. ‘And I did try to make it work with your father. I spent years trying.’
‘I know,’ Molly said, her voice like a little girl’s.
‘It wasn’t working. It was best for me to go, but the condition was that you two stayed with him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you were settled and because we didn’t want to split you. I couldn’t have offered anything to you. I had no home and no job to go to. You were better off with your father.’
Molly blinked and stared at her. ‘You could have called us.’
Cynthia nodded. ‘I know,’ she said, her voice very low. ‘But I knew that, every time I talked to you both, I’d want to come back.’
‘And you didn’t want that, did you?’ Molly said, her voice tinged with bitterness.
‘I couldn’t. You know what it was like with your father, don’t you? You were there.’
‘It was never exactly
The Waltons
, was it?’ Molly said.
‘Then you agree that my leaving was the best thing to do?’ Cynthia asked, as if seeking her daughter’s approval after all these years.
Molly looked up at the ceiling and then down at the floor as if searching for an answer to her mother’s question. ‘I don’t know,’ she said at last, and then she heard the sound of feet and paws on the wooden staircase. Robert was back. Their time was up.
‘Hello,’ Robert called, crossing the room to kiss Cynthia. Molly wondered if he always did that when he’d only been
gone for an hour or so or if he was trying to show Molly that he really did love her mother. ‘I’ve shut the shop,’ he said.
‘Good,’ Cynthia nodded. ‘I’ll get us something for lunch then.’
It was a strange, quietly polite meal, as if they were all trying to work out what the other was thinking but not daring to find out through questioning.
It was a wonder Molly could eat anything at all with all the thoughts that were running through her head, like why had she needed a private detective to try and find her mother? Did she really not want to be found? How long had she known Robert? And had she been seeing him whilst married to Magnus?
‘More bread?’ Cynthia asked.
‘Yes,’ Molly smiled politely, as if her head was empty of all thoughts other than food. But there was no getting away from the fact that, for the past sixteen years, there’d been a huge gap in her life where her mother should have been and she’d tried to fill it with flowers but it hadn’t quite worked. Now, sitting opposite her at a tiny pine table, she didn’t know what to say.
‘So you have a florist’s too, Molly?’ Robert asked.
‘Yes. In the Eden Valley.’
‘It’s beautiful up there, isn’t it?’
Molly nodded, but she didn’t want to talk about the Eden Valley. ‘I couldn’t live anywhere else,’ she said, and then bit her lip. It sounded as if she was snubbing their home.
‘I thought that once,’ her mother said. ‘But you’d be surprised how easy it is to change, given the right circumstances.’
Molly watched as another secret look passed between
Cynthia and Robert. It was the kind of look that she’d never shared with Magnus.
‘And have you a young man?’ Cynthia suddenly asked.
Molly felt herself blushing. ‘Oh, no,’ she said.
‘Nobody special?’ her mum persisted. Could she tell, Molly wondered? Was it possible that she knew?
‘Well,’ Molly said at last, her blush fading away to leave a lovely glow behind, ‘there might be. We’ll have to wait and see.’
It was mid-afternoon when Molly left her mother’s. Robert had given her a hug and had left them to it.
‘Where are you going?’ Cynthia asked.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘You’re not far from the British Museum here.’
‘Oh,’ Molly said. It was as if she was sharing a conversation with a stranger on the streets.
‘Thank you for finding me,’ Cynthia suddenly said, wrapping Molly in a warm embrace.
Molly blinked back the tears. It was a warmth that she hadn’t felt for years. ‘I’m glad I found you.’
‘You’ll visit again soon, won’t you?’
Molly stood back and nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Good,’ Cynthia said.
It was an awkward moment. Molly wondered why she couldn’t stay longer but perhaps a short visit was best. They’d seen each other, and found out that they still cared about each other. That would have to do for now. They’d have the rest of their lives to fill in the gaps.
‘Oh! There’s something I’d like to give you before you go,’ Cynthia said.
Molly watched as her mother bent down amongst the silver buckets. ‘I don’t know how many you’ll be needing for tomorrow,’ she said, standing up with an armful of yellow gerbera, ‘but you’re welcome to all I’ve got.’
Molly left her mother’s shop feeling completely dazed. She’d only been there for a few hours and there were so many questions she still had but she couldn’t expect them all to be answered immediately, not after sixteen years of silence.
After placing the gerbera in her car and pouring an outrageous number of coins into the parking meter, Molly walked the streets with Fizz with no real direction in mind. Her head ached with the stress of the afternoon and she managed to find a pretty square with a fountain and rested for a while on a bench. Watching the patterns the water made, Molly could feel her heartbeat return to something that was approaching normal at last. She felt her eyes closing. How easy it would be to slip into sleep now, she thought. But she mustn’t. She mustn’t lose sight of her plan. She had to keep on going and that meant one thing – ringing Tom Mackenzie.
She got out her mobile and dialled his number quickly before she could change her mind.
‘Tom Mackenzie,’ his voice was loud in her ear.
‘It’s Molly Bailey.’
‘Molly?’
‘Yes.’
‘I was wondering when I’d hear from you again.’
‘Were you?’
‘Yeah, I was. How can I help?’ he asked. ‘That is why you rang me, right?’
‘You’re unbelievable!’
‘Why? Because I knew you’d need me sooner or later?’
Molly rolled her eyes and tutted. ‘What made you think that?’
‘Common sense. But I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘You might be.’
‘So how can I help?’
Molly sighed inwardly. As annoying as he was, she had to admire him. ‘I’m in London.’
‘I thought you might be.’
‘Really?’
‘And you want me there too?’
‘This isn’t an invitation,’ Molly said.
‘So what is it?’
‘It’s information for your newspaper.’
‘The grand finale?’ Tom asked.
Molly’s mouth dropped open. ‘How did you know?’
‘Just a lucky guess.’
‘Has Carolyn being talking to you?’ Molly asked, knowing that she hadn’t even told Carolyn about her plans.
‘No. Not since the duff information which sent me into deepest Wales.’
Molly stifled the urge to laugh. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘No you’re not.’
‘No. I guess I’m not. You were becoming a bit of a pain.’
‘But you need me now, eh?’
‘How come everything you say sounds so self-satisfied?’
Tom laughed. ‘I admit, it’s hard being right all the time.’
There was a pause.
‘So come on, then. What’s the big plan? What’s Molly going to do next?’
‘Something monumental,’ she said, ‘seven o’clock
tomorrow evening.’
‘Monumental?’
‘Work that one out,’ she laughed, and hung up.
Of course, Tom was in London when Molly rang him. He didn’t tell her that, though. They’d reached London in very good time, in fact, allowing Flora her much anticipated visit to the British Museum. That’s when Tom’s phone had gone off. It had been rather embarrassing. Several people had glared at him, as if only a philistine would have their phone switched on in such a revered building, but he was glad he hadn’t turned it off. And it had only taken him about half an hour to work out Molly’s cryptic clue. He’d been flicking through a cheap guidebook to London when he’d come across a photo of The Monument.
‘Bullseye!’ he’d shouted, causing another crowd of tourists to glare at him in consternation, Flora included.
So Molly’s grand finale was to take place at The Monument. He’d email his report in to
Vive!
as soon as he could. They were holding the front page for him, and this was exactly what they’d been waiting for.
Putting her mobile back in her handbag, Molly left the square and followed a sign to the British Museum. It was time she did a bit of sightseeing and it didn’t take her long to reach it. She and Marty had only ever been to London once as children and that had been under pressure from their mother. It hadn’t been a pleasant trip. There was anxiety in the air as their father had pushed them round the Natural History Museum, not really very sure what they should be doing. And the gift shop had been a nightmare. He’d been most disappointed when they hadn’t wanted to buy a guidebook to remind them of their trip and to read on the train back home, and had looked horrified when they’d picked up a pair of rubber dinosaurs.
‘What are you going to do with that?’ he’d asked Molly, his dark eyebrows knitting together in anger.
‘Love it,’ Molly had replied.
She sighed at the memory as she crossed the forecourt of the British Museum and then remembered something: Fizz. What was she going to do with Fizz? She looked around, wondering if it would be safe to tie his lead to the railings, but she didn’t like the idea of that. And then she saw two Chinese girls sitting in the late afternoon sunshine. They looked kind and honest – not the sort to run off with a stranger’s dog.
‘Excuse me,’ Molly began, ‘do you speak English?’
The girls nodded. ‘Not good but OK,’ one of the girls said.
‘I wonder if you’d mind looking after my dog for me whilst I have a quick look round? I’ll only be about half an hour, and I’ll pay you,’ she said, taking a fifty-pound note out of her pocket.
The girls gasped. They were obviously students.
‘Would you? I’d be very grateful.’
‘Yes!’ one of the girls said enthusiastically.
‘His name’s Fizz,’ Molly explained. ‘And he’s very well behaved. Is that OK? I’ll see you in about half an hour?’ She wrote down her mobile number. ‘Ring me if there are any problems,’ she said and, with a smile, she walked towards the great columns and up the steps, and found herself in the startlingly white entrance hall, the sun pouring through the honeycombed glass roof. It was still busy, despite the day drawing towards its close, so Molly knew she’d have to move fast if she wanted to see what she came in for: the Elgin Marbles.
Tom looked up from his museum guidebook. It was no good; he couldn’t make head nor tail of the floor plans. They’d just have to amble round at leisure and hope they wouldn’t get lost.
He’d already lost Flora once as she’d run off in excitement towards the mummies. After the petrol station incident he’d reprimanded her rather loudly, causing a pink flush of cheeks which he immediately felt guilty about but there were so many people around, and Flora was so tiny that she was liable to be swept away by a tide of tourists and never be seen again.
There was one couple in particular who seemed to be shadowing them: an American woman who looked like a hippopotamus in a leisure suit, and her husband who was wearing the sort of cap that, for some inexplicable reason, really grated on Tom. No matter which turn Tom and Flora took or which room they chose to explore, the American
couple never seemed to be far behind. God almighty, the museum was the size of a small country yet there they were at every turn.
Tom and Flora had wandered through endless stretches of galleries, heaving themselves up and down endless staircases and peering into endless cabinets. It was all so daunting. It reminded Tom of his disastrous trip to the Louvre in Paris when he’d spent all of half an hour there before suffocating under a blanket of boredom and deciding to spend the rest of the day in a smoky bar on the Left Bank.
That’s what museums did to him: the first ten minutes were wonderful; full of promise, expectation and excitement, but then something happened. Expectation died and was quickly replaced by a feeling like no other: it was as if he’d aged a hundred years. He adopted what he came to call ‘museum leg’ where the slightest movement was an agony of tiredness. Then there were his eyes, frozen with fatigue, and his mouth as parched as if the sun had set up home there.
No, as long as he was alive, he’d be forever trapped into visiting museums and being thoroughly bored by them.
‘It’s good here, isn’t it, Daddy?’ Flora beamed up from examining some Death Pit jewellery.
‘Marvellous,’ Tom said, secretly hating it all. He couldn’t be doing with all the regimental order and the information plaques. What fascinated him the most wasn’t what was on display but the stories behind the displays: the people who had once been housed in the sarcophagi. Where were all the bodies now? And who had discovered them? That’s what really interested him. Someone had got out of bed and left home one morning with the explicit task of digging up a mummy. What a weird job. And he’d thought his job was
strange enough. At least he didn’t get cursed in his. Well, unless you counted Molly Bailey’s recent diatribe.
However, there was one exhibition that did hold Tom’s attention for more than three seconds. The shabti.
‘They’re like dolls,’ Flora said, peering at the tiny coloured figurines.
‘I can’t believe the Egyptians thought these would perform tasks in the afterlife! Wouldn’t that be the worst? You spend all your life working and, just when you think you’re being laid to rest, you have to go and irrigate some field.’
‘Did they really think a doll could become a servant?’ Flora screwed up her nose in disbelief.
‘If they put a spell on it – yes.’
‘If I put a spell on my toys, would they do my homework for me?’
Tom smiled. ‘It’d be worth a go.’
‘If they sell shabti in the gift shop, I’m going to buy one for you, Daddy, and make it do your work for you. Then we can spend more time together.’
‘Don’t we spend enough time together, then?’
‘Well, we are
now
but we don’t have much time when I’m at school and you’re at work.’
Tom smiled at his little philosopher. It was true, though. In his job, he was always thinking about what could be turned into an article. Even now, his mind was working overtime on shabtis. He realised that he had some clout now as a journalist: that the public were following him; believed in him, and he knew that the British Museum could do with some positive publicity. Surely he could knock up a modern interpretation of the shabtis?
And then it occurred to him: he wanted to do something
to help others. That wasn’t the norm, was it? Didn’t profit always reign supreme with him? Did this mean that he’d finally been Mollied?
Molly travelled through Ancient Egypt to arrive in Greece in a great grey room which housed the Elgin Marbles. Even the light seemed grey, which, to Molly, seemed an appropriate colour for something so old.
Highly strung horses and headless riders galloped round the room, muscles and tendons straining. Wrestling centaurs caught her eye and filled her imagination with mythological mayhem.
But what was so infuriating was the metal railing separating viewer and stone. Sculpture, Molly believed, was made to be touched, and her fingers ached to trace the curls of the soldiers’ hair and the wheels of the horse-drawn chariots.
Tom was beginning to lose his patience. He’d been squashed, scraped and sneezed on as Flora had chosen a postcard of an exhibit he couldn’t even remember seeing.
‘Flora,’ he said, putting an arm firmly on her bird-like shoulder, ‘time to go, I think.’
‘Can we just take one more look at the sarcrofiguses?’
Tom frowned. He was hot and tired and wanted a shower and drink.
‘It’s just over there,’ Flora said. ‘No stairs,’ she added, seeming to read her father’s mind.
‘OK, but quickly.’ He followed her through, looking at the sarcophagus lids, which were so huge that they reminded him of the giant’s grave in Penrith. God, that seemed like an age
ago now. He wondered how many miles they’d driven since then but tried not to think about the petrol cost and the bed and breakfast bills.
He looked at his watch. The museum would be closing soon. They’d better make a move.
But when he looked up he couldn’t see Flora anywhere.
Molly was transfixed by a large horse’s head sitting on a plinth like a leftover prop from
The Godfather
. No body, no dignity and only half an ear; Molly felt almost ashamed to look at him.
She wasn’t the only one to be mesmerised either. A young girl was standing beside her. Molly turned and smiled down at her.
‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ Molly said, nodding towards the horse’s head.
‘Yes. But he looks so sad.’
‘A head shouldn’t be on a plinth.’
‘Where’s his body?’ the girl asked, looking round the room in case she’d missed it.
‘I don’t know.’
‘He looks strange,’ the girl said.
‘He doesn’t want to be here,’ Molly said. ‘I don’t think any of it does.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they don’t belong here. They were collected by the Earl of Elgin when he was in Greece. He sent them back to England and they ended up here. But the Greeks want it all back.’
‘Then we wouldn’t be able to look at it,’ the girl pointed out.
‘No, we wouldn’t. Not unless we travelled to Greece.’
‘Do you think it’s wrong to keep it?’ the girl asked.
Molly nodded. ‘I do. There are people who believe that, if it wasn’t for the Earl of Elgin, the marbles would have been destroyed, but,’ she paused, ‘I still don’t think it’s right to take what isn’t yours. It’s different if it had been given to the museum as a gift from the Greeks but it’s stolen really.’
‘Will the Greeks steal it back?’
Molly smiled down at the girl. ‘Not with all this security. And imagine carrying something like this. It’s not the easiest thing to shift, is it?’
‘God! Flora!’ a man’s voice suddenly filled the room, causing everybody in it to turn round.
‘Daddy!’
‘I thought I’d lost you again! Where have you been?’ The man bent down and wrapped his arms round her. ‘I thought you were talking to Ramesses II?’
‘I got bored of Ancient Egypt, so I came in here.’
‘But you forgot to take me with you!’
‘It’s all right,’ the girl assured him. ‘I met a kind lady.’
The girl’s father looked up at Molly and it was only then that she realised who it was. It was Tom Mackenzie.
Her heart did a quick flip and her mouth went quite dry. Would he recognise her? And, if he did, what would he say to her? It had been one thing to speak to him on the telephone but she wasn’t sure she was ready for a proper meeting just yet. Her job wasn’t done. Molly Bailey’s mission wasn’t yet complete. She still felt suspended in a parallel universe and didn’t feel ready to come back down to earth and explain herself just yet.
‘Look at the horse’s head, Daddy,’ the girl said and Tom
turned away for a moment.
Molly took her chance and fled, her light feet carrying her quickly down the long room and out of the door into Ancient Egypt. She heard him calling after her but he was obviously not keen to pursue her at the risk of losing his daughter again.
Running out of the museum, she fled down the steps, flung another fifty-pound note to the bemused Chinese girls, grabbed Fizz’s lead and ran.
Tom grabbed Flora’s hand and ran out of the museum as fast as he could but at the top of the steps a wall of flesh stopped his passage. It was the Americans.
‘Excuse me!’ Tom all but shouted.
‘Pardon?’ the American woman drawled, stepping back onto Tom’s right foot.
Tom yelled out in pain.
‘
Oh my Gard!
’ the American woman exclaimed. ‘Is there something I can do?’
For a split second, Tom was very tempted to say, ‘Well, you could start by losing ten stone,’ but bit his tongue.
‘She’s gone!’ Flora said. ‘Where did she go?’
‘She couldn’t have gone far.’
‘I can’t see her anywhere.’
‘Damn it,’ Tom said under his breath and received a reprimanding look from Flora.
‘It’s all my fault.’
‘You couldn’t possibly have known, Flo. Don’t worry about it.’
They stood in silence for a moment, looking down into the forecourt of the museum, but they couldn’t see her.
‘How could she vanish so quickly?’ Tom said.
‘It’s like Cinderella!’ Flora said.
‘But there’s absolutely no clue where she’s gone.’ Tom shook his head in annoyance. He’d come so close to her at last but he’d lost her yet again. Well, at least until tomorrow.
Tom sighed as he and Flora left the British Museum and, as they walked down the shallow steps, something occurred to him. It had been Tom Mackenzie the man and not Tom Mackenzie the journalist that had wanted to talk to Molly.