All The Days of My Life (94 page)

“Sorry, Molly,” he said. “But it wasn't strictly necessary. Fact is,
these would come cheaper than the old petrol engines, if the materials involved don't suddenly leap up in price. Course – there's testing.”

“We'll have to do at least 10,000 miles,” Molly said. “And in different climates, too.” She handed the bike back to Wayne and said, “Lock it up.”

“What is this?” Wayne asked.

“At the moment,” she said, “it's my son, Fred. He'd give anything for a go –” She looked at George and said, “George – you put him on the unsafe one.”

“I found him on it,” said George. She watched Wayne taking away the new Messiter and told him, “I'd give anything to have that.”

“When we've finished with it,” he said. He was beginning to look proud of himself.

Inside, over coffee in the dining room she said, “Here's the problem – no, here are the problems. First – I've got to work out in my own mind whether I've got the nerve, or the capital, to develop it. Second – well, the second's a question. Would it drive a car – this engine?”

“Nothing to stop it,” George said. “The principle'd be exactly the same. They were working on something like it in the States in 1981–2. There was a hitch. I couldn't see –”

“That's the problem,” Molly said. “From the moment you apply for a patent you're in trouble, George. I think you'll get offered money for this. I think if you phoned any big motor manufacturer now they'd offer you a few million. Either to develop it themselves or to secure the patent so they could wait until they wanted to develop it – or suppress it.”

Wayne was smoking a thin cigar. “I thought about that,” he said. Some rooks cawed in the trees nearby. “That's got to be your decision, George.” Molly told him. The front door banged. “And another thing,” she said, “give us one of them cigars, Wayne. The trouble is, you're in danger, George – we all are.”

George looked at Wayne. Wayne nodded.

“Chuck us the matches,” she said. Richard Mayhew put his head round the door. “So's he,” she said, pointing at him. “Hullo, Richard,” she said brightly. “Back quick from Berlin?”

“Wouldn't mind a cup of coffee,” he said.

“Get it yourself,” said Molly. “We've got a bit of a problem.”

He shrugged and answered, “OK. I'll see you later.”

“Fred saw it, you see,” she told the others when he had gone. “He took it for granted he'd need a minder. You know there's more
kidnaps these days. We've got to imagine we've got an engine which can drive cars, trucks – anything. Conservationists cheer – what are all the others going to say and do? There's billions of pounds at stake here – do you see what I mean?”

George said, “Yes,” in a slightly doubtful voice. Wayne said, “I'm going to ring my wife and tell her to be careful.”

“You mean people might try to get the plans?” George said. Molly could have cried. Poor Lil – she had not lived to see her brilliant child fulfil himself. She had not lived, either, to see him remain a brilliant child.

“Look,” she said, “George – supposing you'd been a stagecoach operator when they invented railway trains. What would you have done?”

“Gone into steam,” he replied humourlessly.

“Never mind,” she said. “I think you'd better take out this patent and disappear. You can go down to stay with Sid in Ramsgate. And while you have a seaside holiday, which, God knows, you need, the rest of us'll have to be careful. We'll have to have security men – Wayne, when you ring your wife tell her she's going to have to share her life with a couple of ex-coppers. I'll have to stay here for a bit and live with a few of the same. Isabel'll go spare but I can't help that. Meanwhile I've got to decide if I can handle going into this business and you've got to decide, George, if you'd like to sell off the idea and go into a wealthy retirement. Is it all right if I ring Sid and tell him to expect you?”

George nodded. Her urgency was beginning to affect him. Molly took another of Wayne's cheroots and said, “I didn't expect this.” Wayne went out to the telephone. “God knows why we haven't got a handset in here,” muttered Molly. “We'll have to get some technology in this place.” She looked at George, who said, “You're right, you know – it's a pity Mum isn't alive. I could've done a lot for her. She had a rotten hard life.”

“Don't I know it,” Molly said. “Time you got married yourself, George. That's what she'd've liked.” But, she thought, please God, to a sensible widow, not a blonde tart after his money.

Wayne came back. “How did she take the news?” Molly asked. He laughed. “Like usually – told me she wished she married a local farmer's boy. Then she says make sure the guys're good-looking.”

“You make sure to get ugly ones,” Molly said sympathetically.

“You could get government backing for this,” Wayne told her.

“Money got selling off hospitals,” Molly said.

“You need backing, Molly,” he warned her.

“There's got to be a better way,” she said. And went out to ring the security firm.

The day went on quickly. George left in a car for Ramsgate. The lawyer came from London. Wayne was collected by the security men who would stay in his house in Liverpool and went back up north. Molly made some brief explanations to Isabel, who took the news that the house was to be heavily guarded very well.

Richard Mayhew, however, said that he would find it unbearable to live in an armed camp and left an hour later to stay with a friend in London. She and Isabel were eating a sandwich together in the dining room when the telephone rang. Herbert Precious said that he had something important to say to her and asked her if she would meet him in London as soon as possible. Molly, now unable to pause, agreed to drive up immediately. She told Isabel she would be back before ten that night and as she drove out into the main road, crossed the security men driving in with a couple of Alsatian dogs in the car behind a grille. As she went to London she knew she must begin to see beyond present emergencies and work out what to do, but she now felt very fatigued. Her doctor had told her almost a year ago, when she visited him with a minor throat infection, that she should try to lead a calmer life. “It's all right,” she had said, “I'm the sort that thrives on stress.” And he, the quiet country GP who had attended Mrs Gates at her death, had said, “Even your sort can't go on forever. There's a kind of battle fatigue I've seen in people who live as you do. In the end they do collapse – it surprises everyone, but they do. It doesn't need to happen if only you live sensibly. Take proper holidays, for example.” Of course she had taken no notice but now the conversation came back to her. Why had she automatically agreed to go to Meakin Street to meet Bert, when she had, half an hour before, been turning Allaun Towers into a fortress? Was she simply running too fast herself, unable to work out what was important and what was not? Bert's voice had sounded urgent, she thought, not like someone about to make a declaration of love – and why should he, after all this time? He had sounded more like someone with urgent business to discuss. Perhaps, she thought, Tom Allaun was in trouble. But her secret hope was that Corrie Precious had fallen in love and run away to Trinidad for at that moment, tired and with urgent decisions to make, she felt urgently that all she wanted was a peaceful, loving life with Bert. But, “No such luck for you, Mary
Waterhouse,” said a voice inside her head. “Pull yourself together, gel – count your blessings and think what's happening to everybody else.” This was not difficult as the frozen, darkening countryside gave way first to the suburbs, where houses, a long way back from the street, had lighted windows and people moving about inside, then to the city, where the streets were almost empty except for small bands of young men, walking about. In the wide, inner city thoroughfares some shops had already put tawdry Christmas displays in their windows, many of which were protected by mesh grilles. Other shops were boarded up, showing “For Sale” signs.

She went on, through Parliament Square. There was a police cordon blocking off Piccadilly and Regent Street. Ambulances and police cars stood with their red and blue lights revolving. She made a detour and got to Meakin Street. By now it was completely dark. She opened the door with her keys and knew that Bert Precious was there already.

“Sir Herbert Precious –” the office manager began.

Molly nodded. She said, on impulse, “You and Tony and Sarah can go home now.”

As he protested she said, “Take whatever it is home with you and do it.” The office manager glanced at the ceiling. She said, “A friend – very harmless.”

As she walked up the stairs she heard her own voice saying, “Very harmless.” She did not believe it.

There he was, stretched out in a chair. She could not help smiling at him but his own face was serious. Feeling even more alarmed she offered him a drink and as she looked through the cupboard in the kitchen, finding only gin and Armagnac, wondered what was going on. Had Corrie died – surely Bert wasn't the kind to bring his bereavement instantly to her doorstep? Did he need a loan? She could not believe he would summon her to London to ask for money. No contingency she could think of, indeed, no area of life she could think of, seemed to fit the urgent summons. Carrying the Armagnac and two glasses back into the room where he sat, she poured him a drink and handed it to him. As she did so she said, “How are you, Bert? I've wanted to know but I decided, with Corrie back, that the less seen of me the better.”

“I've missed you, Molly,” he said distantly. He paused. “The situation is – that is, there's something I have to tell you.”

Molly, growing increasingly apprehensive, said, “Well, spit it out then. I can't stand people creeping round bad news.”

“It's not bad news,' he said. “Your instincts were quite right, when you said in your letter you felt everything wasn't quite out in the open.”

“Special Branch,” Molly declared instantly. “You're Special Branch, aren't you, Bert? Is this something to do with Josephine? Will you kindly get on with it? Tell me what's going on.”

“It's not that,” he said. “It's not an immediate crisis. It's connected with your family.”

Molly sat silently, thinking, somehow he's found out that Joe was my brother. He's breaking it to me. But as she sat there she heard the little, tuneful voice of a woman singing the French song about cornfields and loss. I'm going mad, she thought.

“My part in all this may make you angry,” he said.

“Damn all this,” she burst out. “What's going to make me angry is you beating about the bush.” Unable to control herself any longer she said, “I think I know anyway – you've been poking about and you found out about Joe.”

“Joe?” he said, staring at her. “It's not Joe. What is it about Joe?” She stared at him, saying grimly, “You first.”

He said, “I have to ask you, Molly – have you ever had any inkling that Sid and Ivy were not your parents?”

Did it, didn't I? Molly thought angrily to herself. Told him what he didn't know while he tells me what I do. She said, “I know they're not. Ivy told me before she died.” A sudden thought struck her. “Do you know who they really were? My parents?”

“I've orders to tell you,” he said.

“Whose orders?” she asked.

“Orders from Her Majesty the Queen.”

“You must be joking,” Molly said.

“I'd like to hear about Joe,” he said.

“I'd like to hear why the Queen's taking an interest in me,” she retorted.

Molly just wished she did not feel so weary and that the voice in her head would stop singing. It made her want to cry. To cover it she said, “All right – what I thought you'd come to say is that you'd somehow found out Joe Endell might have been my brother. We were both rescued from the same bombed building and perhaps the poor woman was our mother. Course, we didn't know when we got married. Joe never knew. But if you think I care, I don't. I loved Joe and he loved me and that was all there was to it. All I want is for my son not
to find out while he's young. It could upset him at his age – I want to tell him myself, when he's older. I don't want him haunted in his teens, thinking there's something horrible about his birth.” She looked at Bert Precious, sitting opposite her in the silent room, and jumped up instantly. “My God!” she cried. “Is something the matter with you?” She stared into his pale face and put her arms round him. “Are you ill? Can I get you anything?” For a moment she thought perhaps he had lost his balance. Perhaps the summons, the story about the Queen, were part of the madness. He looked up at her and said, “Oh, God, Molly. This may be worse than we thought.”

Through the weariness Molly felt some anger rising. She said, “Are you all right? Drink your Armagnac.” She handed him the glass and stood back. She said, “There isn't a lot you can tell a woman like me that'll shock her. I've seen more trouble than you've had hot dinners. Now, will you say what you came here to say?”

And he told her. “You were born in France in 1936 at a house in Poulaye-sur-Bois in the Loire area. Your mother was Maria Johnson and your father Edward, then Prince of Wales.”

Molly said, “What? Have you gone mad?”

Sir Herbert, drawing a deep breath said, “You'll have to judge for yourself.” And he told of the marriage of a seduced girl from an old English Catholic family to the youthful Prince of Wales. He told her of the secret ceremony conducted by the Abbot at Poulaye, of the birth, six months after the wedding, of a boy, her brother, of the birth, two years later, before the abdication of the new king, of the girl, who was to become, by a series of accidents, Mary Waterhouse. “She agreed,” Bert Precious said, “to stay in France quietly and cause no trouble. You have to remember what girls were like in those days – they were trained to be obedient to God, their husbands and their sovereign. And the young David was at least two of those things to her. And she came from a family which boasted a martyr burned at Smithfield for adhering to Catholicism and had suffered all sorts of penalties –”