Molly's Millions (10 page)

She swung her legs out of bed and padded across the thick carpet to the window. Drawing back the curtains, she heaved the sash window up and stuck her head out. The air was deliciously cool and she shivered as if a thousand frostbitten fingers had tickled her all over. The sky was clear and dark and stuffed with stars. Molly stared up into them until she felt her vision blurring. Were they guiding her? Did they
really hold her destiny? Molly didn’t like to believe in fate; she liked to believe that she, and she alone, held the power to determine her own future.

Still, looking up at the heavens, it was easy to believe otherwise. 

It was over fifteen years since Molly had visited Bradford. It had been an annual event throughout her childhood but, shortly after her mother had left, Molly had lost touch with the Percy side of the family. She’d heard her father say that he thought Auntie Clara had moved to Leeds but nothing was ever confirmed and she had never spoken to her auntie or cousin again. But she had never forgotten them.

She remembered being put on a train in Carlisle, with her baby suitcase, for the journey south. Bradford was still in the north of England, but Molly’s father had always referred to his wife’s relatives as ‘those southerners’. Still, Molly had always enjoyed the train ride: through the dales and valleys of Cumbria, and across the bridges and becks of Yorkshire until the moors would give way to regimental stone terraces, which, in turn, would morph into factories of black stone and cities of chimneys.

Auntie Clara and cousin Jess would meet her at Leeds so
she didn’t have to change trains on her own. From there, it was a short train ride and a long bus ride, via a bag of chips and a doughnut, to the flat which seemed to Molly to be as high in the sky as you could possibly live without being an angel.

Sitting in her car now, she looked up at the tower block. God, it was ugly. It hadn’t been her childhood imagination that had painted it in such miserable colours. It was truly an eyesore to rival all eyesores.

She could still see it all, and smell it all too. The corridors had smelt like a zoo where the cleaners had gone on strike, and they were as stark, echoey and frightening as a new school.

‘Never use the lifts!’ Auntie Clara warned Molly on her first visit.

‘But I thought you lived on the top floor?’ Molly said.

‘That’s right – fourteenth.’

Molly’s mouth dropped open.

‘Exercise is good for you,’ Auntie Clara had smiled, giving her trademark rattly cough which Molly’s father referred to as ‘smoker’s smog’.

Molly thought that someone with a name as regal as Clara Percy should have lived in a stately home rather than on an estate, and the flat came as a complete shock to her. For a start, there was barely any furniture in it. The living room housed a TV no bigger than a shoebox, an old brown sofa and a couple of tables with cup ring marks where coasters should have been.

‘Make yourself at home,’ Auntie Clara said, disappearing into the kitchen. Jess sat next to Molly on the sofa, waiting
for her to speak first.

Molly looked round the room, desperately trying to find something she could comment on. There was a row of unframed photographs on the fireplace, curling and browning like autumn leaves.

‘You’ve got a nice house,’ Molly said hesitantly.

Jess glared at her. ‘Crap.’

‘What?’

‘That’s a load of crap.’

Molly gasped. She’d never heard such language before, and then she remembered something her father had said. ‘Mouths like sewers those kids.’ He’d been talking about the nameless, faceless children on the estate who’d let his car tyres down the one time he’d deigned to visit with Molly’s mum.

‘Is that sewer talk?’ Molly asked Jess.

Jess glared at her again. ‘What?’

‘
Crap
?’

Auntie Clara’s head popped round the kitchen door. ‘Who said that? You been swearing at Molly already?’ She came into the room and clipped Jess round the ear. ‘She’s only been here five minutes and she sounds like a carbon copy of you.’ Auntie Clara sucked hard on her cigarette until Molly felt sure her cheeks would disappear down her throat.

‘What’s a carbon copy, Auntie Clara?’

‘A mistake, Molly,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘A
huge
mistake.’

It didn’t take long for Molly and Jess to become firm friends. Whenever Molly was invited, they’d sit and talk:
old-fashioned
, honest-to-goodness talking. It was always a strange experience for Molly because talking was something that her family didn’t ever do. There was moaning. One could always
rely on at least three moans a day in the Bailey household, but talking? That was unheard of.

‘So, Moll, what do you think?’ Auntie Clara would often ask, and Molly would feel herself blushing at being asked for her opinion on something. Did it really matter what she thought of something? Could her opinion make a difference? The intensity in her aunt’s eyes and the concentration etched across her brow would seem to say so, and that made Molly feel oh-so-special.

Something else that was rare in the Bailey household, but in abundance at Auntie Clara’s, was laughter. The silliest things would set the three of them off until the couch was put under so much pressure with them rolling around that they’d have to stop before there was an accident.

There was the time when they’d wanted to play snakes and ladders but realised they didn’t have one.

‘Must have given it away,’ Auntie Clara said.

‘Given it away?’ Jess shouted. ‘We never had one.’

Auntie Clara had shaken her head. ‘We’ll have to make our own.’ She then walked round the house gathering all the socks she could find. ‘These are the snakes,’ she said, laying them down on the threadbare carpet. ‘And these,’ she said, ‘are the ladders.’

‘What are they?’ Molly asked.

‘Oh,
Mum!
’ Jess wailed. ‘You can’t use those!’

‘What’s wrong with them? They’re clean.’

‘What are they?’ Molly asked again, her eyes screwed up in wonder.

‘Stockings,’ Auntie Clara had explained. ‘They’re like tights but without the saggy bit in the middle.’

There’d then been the strangest game of snakes and
ladders Molly had ever played. Nobody had any real idea of the score, but it didn’t seem to matter as they erupted in laughter every time somebody went down a sock-snake with one of Auntie Clara’s button earrings which were being used as counters, and the whole game had ended in a big sock fight.

It was then that it had happened. The incident that Molly would never forget.

They didn’t hear the knock on the door at first because they’d been laughing so much, but they couldn’t miss the second knock.

‘It’s Maud,’ Auntie Clara said. ‘That’s her warning knock.’

‘Warning knock?’ Molly turned to Jess whose face had turned white in an astonishing short space of time since it had been bright red.

Jess put her finger up to her lips. ‘Listen.’

Molly listened as Auntie Clara opened the front door, but she couldn’t make out what was being said.

Finally, Auntie Clara came back into the living room. ‘Quick,’ she said. The laughter had drained from her body and her voice sounded steely, almost afraid. ‘Phil Phipps is on the prowl. Get behind the sofa.’

Molly started. Had she heard right? What did she mean? Was this some sort of new game involving the neighbours?

Molly had never been behind a sofa before and it was a strange experience. Quite a new perspective on the world.

‘Auntie Clara, what are we doing?’ she asked as she huddled into a human ball.

‘You can see straight into this room from the front door. I keep meaning to get it replaced but haven’t had the money. Just get behind the sofa and don’t make a noise.’

There was a loud banging at the front door, and Molly had to do her best not to scream out in fear. She looked at her aunt who was bent double next to her, her forehead pressed against a dirty antimacassar as she tried to keep her balance.

‘Don’t make a sound, Moll.’

Molly wasn’t going to; she was too scared. This wasn’t a very fun game, if it were, indeed, a game, so she watched and waited, wincing each time there was a knocking on the door.

‘Why don’t they just go away?’ Jess asked.

‘They will,’ Auntie Clara told her. ‘As long as we’re quiet.’

They waited for what seemed like an eternity, until Molly felt sure that they would have to set up a permanent home behind the sofa.

Finally, Jess nudged her mum. ‘They’re going away,’ she said in an excited whisper.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Listen.’

They all listened as heavy boots shuffled along the passageway outside.

‘He’ll be going to Kerry Anderson’s,’ Auntie Clara said.

‘Who?’ Molly asked. ‘
Who
will be going to Kerry Anderson?’

Auntie Clara smiled down at her and ruffled a hand through her thick curls. ‘You don’t ever want to know, Moll.’

‘But I do. Who is
he
?’

‘He’s the man everybody owes money to,’ Jess explained.

Molly’s mouth dropped before she fished around in her trouser pocket. There were two fifty-pence pieces there, and she handed them to Auntie Clara.

‘Bless you, Moll, but it’ll take more than that, I’m afraid.’

‘But what do you owe him money for?’ Molly asked. She’d
already seen the flat, and knew there was nothing in it that they’d spent any money on recently.

‘The telephone,’ Auntie Clara said.

‘But you don’t have a telephone,’ Molly pointed out.

‘No. Not since we were disconnected.’

‘Why don’t you explain that you can’t pay him?’

Auntie Clara gave a laugh that was half cackle, half rumble. ‘’Cause you don’t
explain
to people like Phil Phipps. The only language they understand is money.’

Molly looked up at the flats and wondered if Phil Phipps still haunted the residents. She’d never actually seen him but had a picture of what he must be like. He’d be the sort of man whose neck was as thick as his head, with red, roughened, lizard-like skin and the kind of knuckles with which you could knock down a house.

Molly got out of the car, Fizz dancing at her heels in anticipation of a walk.

‘You really wouldn’t want a walk round here,’ she said to him, his face as innocent as a snowdrop. ‘I don’t think you’d like the neighbourhood dogs. They’re all bodybuilders and have nose studs and tattoos. Anyway, we’ve work to do.’

She had the envelopes ready; each stuffed with notes and a single yellow gerbera. All she had to do was post them but that was easier said than done. She no sooner opened the door into the flats than Fizz started to whimper. Could he smell the other dogs already or was it the smell of humans that he didn’t like? The
stench
of humans, Molly thought, her nose wrinkling in disgust. Why did flats always smell like that? All of the nastiest of human smells seemed to congregate there, like a perfume section of a department store which had
gone horribly wrong.

‘We’d better make this fast,’ she said, and headed straight for the stairs, her hand closing over the thick creamy envelopes. She took a deep breath, but not too deep, and then began the long, laborious climb to the fourteenth floor.

Tom and Flora walked hand in hand towards the nearest newsagent’s. It seemed hard to imagine
Vive!
selling in the Yorkshire market town but it was there on the shelves along with all the other papers. It would seem that people wanted to read the latest gossip no matter where they lived.

‘Do you want to look for it, Flo?’ Tom asked after paying for it and leaving the shop.

Flora took the paper from him. ‘Are you nervous?’

Tom nodded.

‘Don’t be, Daddy.’

But he couldn’t help it. He could tell that he wasn’t on pages two or three already. His heart beat faster as Flora turned another page. Had they not used his piece? Had he been taken out last minute or had they not thought it newsworthy in the first place? Was he washed up already? Had his great adventure ended before it had even begun?

‘You got a facing page, Daddy!’ Flora beamed. She knew
all the jargon.

‘Where?’ Tom grabbed the paper from her.

‘Page seven!’ she said.

‘
Seven?
’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

Tom quickly scanned the stories that had taken precedence over his own and then slowly nodded. ‘It’s not bad,’ he said. ‘To begin with.’

‘I think it’s wonderful.
Honesty Box Bonanza!
’

‘So you don’t mind me writing for
Vive!
now, do you?’

‘No, I don’t mind. I think it’s exciting!’

Tom quickly read through his article checking for errors but it was word-perfect. It was rather a novelty to see his work in a national and he felt intensely proud of it but he’d have to get a move on with the next piece if he wanted to keep both editor and readers interested. At least he had a name he could now link to his story. Molly Bailey. She was his and he was going to turn her into a breakfast phenomenon.

‘Here’s that Molly Bailey again,’ the nation would chirp over their cornflakes. ‘That Tom Mackenzie’s hot on her trail now.’ Yes, he thought, their names would be instantly recognisable before too long: thrown together in the media event of the year. But he mustn’t get too ahead of himself; he had his next piece to write.

Whitton Castle’s Windfall. Donation Dame Strikes Again
. Hmmm, he’d have to come up with something better than that if he was to graduate from page seven.

In the meantime, they had to start making tracks to Bradford.

Carolyn woke up on Monday morning with a feeling that
something was wrong. She stared at her alarm clock. It was ten to seven. She always woke up exactly ten minutes before the alarm was due to go off, which gave her head a few minutes to untangle from dreamland before starting the day.

Rolling over, she looked at Marty. He was still fast asleep. After his bath the night before, he’d gone straight to bed without speaking to her, and the thing that occurred to her was that she hadn’t been the least bit surprised. It was all part and parcel of their argumentative cycles.

She’d be glad to get out of the house and escape to work. It wasn’t that she loved her job at the call centre but it did provide a temporary escape from her problems. It was always so much nicer listening to other people rather than dwelling on herself. She’d recently been promoted too, which she still got a kick out of. She didn’t get her own office or anything posh like that but it did, at least, mean a little more money.

Sighing into her pillow, Carolyn remembered the evening she’d come home from work with the good news. She’d bustled round the kitchen organising a romantic meal, even opening a bottle of wine in celebration. Then, somewhere between the main course and dessert, she had broken the good news.

‘How much are you on now?’ had been Marty’s only response.

She looked across at him again. His thick hair was so dark against the cream pillow, and his beautiful lashes swept his skin as he began to wake. How could someone so handsome be so disagreeable most of the time? she wondered. It just didn’t seem possible. And then she remembered. She couldn’t escape to work. She’d booked leave;
they’d
booked leave, for the next two weeks. She felt a groan growing in the pit of her
stomach. She’d been so looking forward to spending some relaxing time with Marty. Heaven knew they needed it. But now? After their continuing rowing, the holiday would be more like a prison sentence.

Luckily, they hadn’t booked anything so Carolyn would probably be able to escape to her friend’s house and sit out the holiday with her.

Marty stirred beside her and Carolyn felt her body tense. ‘God!’ he groaned, pushing the duvet down his body and swinging his legs out of bed. ‘I said I’d go round to Granddad’s today.’

‘Why?’

Marty turned to look at Carolyn, his eyes big and brown and still half drowsy from sleep. ‘Because he’s eighty-six and doesn’t get out much. He likes to have a bit of company.’

Carolyn would have laughed if Marty hadn’t looked so serious. The thought of Granville Bailey liking company was a bit much. He was nothing but an old grouch. Besides, he saw Marty every weekend and Magnus at least twice a week.

‘You can come with me if you like,’ Marty said.

She bit her lip. Hadn’t she vowed that she wouldn’t be pushed into that again?

‘You don’t have to come,’ Marty said, his voice soft and gentle. ‘But I’d like you to.’

Carolyn felt weighed down by sudden obligation. Marty knew all the tricks in the book, didn’t he? The big brown eyes, the gentle voice, the non-didactic plea for her company.

‘OK,’ she said, knowing she’d probably regret the decision sooner rather than later. ‘As long as we’re not round there all day.’

Tom had never been interviewed on radio before but, he’d reasoned, Bradford was too big a place to find Molly Bailey in without a little bit of help. It wasn’t as if he could just go into a pub and stumble over a local who’d met her. He wasn’t in Swaledale anymore so the idea of an appeal by local radio had occurred to him. He wasn’t sure if it would work but it was worth a go.

It was quite exciting, really. Flora was allowed to go with him too and he kept glancing at her as she sat, eyes wide in excitement, as DJ Dan Dooley ran through his questions quickly.

‘We don’t normally do interviews in the lunchtime slot,’ he said in a tone of voice that heavily implied he was doing Tom a huge favour, ‘but your story does sound rather interesting.’ Dan Dooley was talking over a tuneless love duet that reminded Tom why he never listened to local radio.

‘I really appreciate your time,’ Tom said, quite willing to butter him up even though he was greasy enough already.

‘You’re very welcome, young man. Very welcome.’ Dan Dooley turned away as the record ended. ‘“A Love Supreme” there, requested by Mrs Patricia Forbes from Shipley. Hope that brought back some of the old memories for you, Patricia,’ he said in a voice like out-of-date syrup. ‘You’re listening to Dan Dooley Daily.’

Flora giggled, causing Dan to give her a reprimanding look. Tom also gave her one of his own but was finding it hard to suppress the giggles himself.

‘It’s not every day you meet a millionaire,’ Dan Dooley began, ‘and it’s even less likely that you meet a millionaire whose mission seems to be to give her entire fortune away, but that’s exactly what happened to my next guest, Tom
Mackenzie. Welcome to Dan Dooley Daily, Tom.’

Flora giggled again, her cheeks flushing pink with hysterics.

‘Thank you,’ Tom said, trying desperately to curb the laughter in his voice.

‘You’re a freelance reporter, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, currently working for
Vive!
,’ Tom said, scoring an instant point for his current employer and not doing himself any harm in the process.

‘
Vive!
I think we’ve got quite a few
Vive!
fans listening today, haven’t we?’ Dan Dooley said, his thick lips hovering over the mic like an insistent lover. ‘So tell us what it is you’re up to at the moment.’

‘Well, I got wind of a possible story a few days ago. Up in Cumbria, a farmer came across five thousand pounds in his honesty box.’

‘Five
thousand
pounds?’

‘Yes. Not the sort of thing you hear every day.’

‘Certainly not round here,’ Dan Dooley chortled into his mic.

‘So, I asked around a bit and it turns out that a local girl, Molly Bailey, seems to have come into quite a lot of money.’

‘You mean won the lottery?’

‘We’re not absolutely sure at the moment but one thing’s for sure: it’s not been inherited from her family.’

‘So why would this Molly Bailey want to give her money away?’

‘Again, that’s something we’ve got to find out but the last lead I had told me she was heading to Bradford. I don’t know what her plans are or where she’s heading next but there’s one clue: when she leaves money for people, she has a rather
unusual calling card.’

‘What’s that, Tom?’

‘A single yellow gerbera – it’s like a very large daisy.’

Dan Dooley nodded. ‘And that’s where you come in, listeners. If any of you out there have been left a sudden windfall in cash, with a single yellow—’

‘Gerbera. It’s like a large daisy.’

‘—large daisy, give us a call. You know the number,’ Dan Dooley said, repeating it twice, ‘we want to hear from you and try to track down this modern-day Robin Hood.’

Bastard!
Tom thought.
He’s stolen my line
.

‘So get calling,’ he said, as he began playing another
God-awful
love ballad.

As soon as the music started, the phones started too. Tom looked across at where a little lady in a white blouse covered in strawberries was scribbling on a piece of paper and nodding into the phone. What was going on? Was this a hoax? Were these people attention seekers or had they really encountered Molly?

Dan Dooley nodded over to the little lady as the song ended.

‘I have a Mrs Esther Cobbs on the line. You’re through to Dan Dooley Daily.’

Flora giggled.

‘Where are you calling from, Esther love?’

‘Moor View, Bradford.’

‘The flats?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And would you like to tell the listeners what happened to you?’

‘Well, I wus just doing a bit of ironing when I heard a
rattle at the letter box. I thought it wus one of those leaflet people messing me flat up again and I was just about to have a go at whoever it was when I saw the envelope.’

‘Was it addressed to you?’

‘No, it weren’t. It wus completely blank. And it wus far too good quality to have any of them begging letters in, so I opens it.’

‘And what was inside, Esther?’

‘Five hundred pounds – in fifty-pound notes.’

‘And you’ve no idea who left it?’

‘Well, I thought I’d see if I could spot someone but there didn’t seem to be anyone around so I knocked on my neighbour’s door to see if she’d seen anything and she’d been left an envelope too.’

‘With the same amount of money in it?’

‘The same.’

‘Was there anything else inside the envelope?’ Tom asked.

‘Yes, there wus as a matter of fact. A flower.’

‘Yellow?’

‘Yeah!’

Dan Dooley glared at Tom, obviously not liking his slot being taken over. ‘That’s all we’ve got time for, I’m afraid. Esther – thank you for your call. Keep tuning in to Dan Dooley Daily.’

Flora giggled.

Before they left the studio, the little woman in the strawberry-print blouse came up to Tom and presented him with the A4 sheet of paper she’d been scribbling on. ‘I don’t know if this is of any use to you, but there was another woman who rang in from the Moor View flats who thinks she might have seen this Molly Bailey. I’ve highlighted the
number there. She said she’d be happy to talk to you.’

Tom looked down at the name and number. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘And here’s a little something for your girl,’ she said, presenting her with a large red, yellow and blue sticker with
Dan Dooley Daily
written on it.

Flora giggled.

They walked down the corridor away from the studio, their faces pulled tight from the exertion of not laughing but it all became too much when they saw a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Dan Dooley in reception.
The Dan Dooley Daily Roadshow – coming to you this summer!

Tom and Flora looked at each other and immediately broke out into uncontrollable laughter.

‘
Vive!
Who brought that rag into this house?’ Granville Bailey barked from his winged chair.

‘It was cheaper than the others,’ Marty’s father, Magnus, explained. ‘I only wanted it for the TV guide.’

A likely story, Carolyn smirked. Everyone knew that
Vive!
had more gorgeous girls than
The Sun
and more gossip than a women’s glossy. Bored to tears by the men’s conversation, Carolyn picked up
Vive!
and flicked through it, her eyes soon out on stalks at the amount of flesh on display. It was like taking a trip to the local deli.

She was just about to toss the paper onto the floor in disgust when she saw a familiar name. Tom Mackenzie. Was that the same Tom Mackenzie who’d paid a visit to their home asking about Molly? So he
was
a reporter after all, not a stalker as she’d first suspected.

Carolyn read the short article. Five thousand pounds. Gilt
View Farm. A single yellow gerbera.

Mrs Bailey, has Molly come into any money recently?

Carolyn blinked as she remembered Tom Mackenzie’s question. But this story couldn’t be connected with Molly, could it? What possible motivation could she have for giving five thousand pounds to a complete stranger? And then she remembered something. Carolyn had visited The Bloom Room a few weeks ago and Molly and she had gone out for a walk and she distinctly remembered how sad Molly had been. It wasn’t surprising really. Molly had always adored the countryside, and it was heartbreaking to see most of the local footpaths closed off due to foot and mouth. The fields had become like ghost towns without the sheep and cattle, and Molly and Carolyn had had to stick to the roads for most of their walk.

‘I wish there was something I could do,’ Molly had said.