Molly's Millions

by Victoria Connelly

  When she came back through to the living room with two mugs of tea, Tom noticed that her face wasn’t quite so flushed.

  ‘Oh, please sit down,’ she said. Tom sat down on the sofa, his bottom immediately sucked in so deep that he almost hit the floor.

  Mrs Bailey gave a nervous little laugh. ‘I’m sorry about that. It’s rather old. We keep meaning to replace it but just haven’t got round to it. Please, why don’t you sit on that chair?’ She motioned to a wooden chair in the corner of the room, a blush of embarrassment colouring her face.

  ‘No, no!’ Tom said quickly. ‘I’m very comfortable here, thank you.’

  ‘I rather doubt that,’ Mrs Bailey said brightly, her face lighting up at last.

  There was a couple of seconds’ awkward silence. Tom was the first to speak.

  ‘I’d better tell you why I’m here,’ he said, attempting to sit forward in the sofa but finding it an impossibility.

  ‘You said something about Molly.’

  ‘Yes. I’m a journalist,’ he said, deciding to be absolutely honest, ‘and I think Molly might have a rather interesting story to tell.’

  ‘Story? Is Molly in some sort of trouble?’

  ‘No, no!’ Tom said quickly, knowing that people always jumped to the worst possible conclusion as soon as the media started to show an interest. ‘But I think she might have recently…’ Tom paused. How much information was he going to have to give away in order to be able to get in touch with this Molly Bailey? ‘Mrs Bailey,’ he began again, ‘do you know where I can find Molly?’

  Mrs Bailey’s pretty hazel eyes crinkled at the edges as if she was trying to weigh him up. He waited a moment without pressing her further.

  ‘She’s on holiday,’ she said at last, ‘but why should I tell you where she is? I don’t know you from Adam.’

  Tom smiled. ‘I think you’d be interested to know her story.’

  ‘What story? She’s on holiday!’

  ‘Not just any old holiday, though,’ Tom said, hoping that it would be enough to drop hints and that maybe, that way, he could get the information he required.

  ‘What do you mean? There’s nothing special about Swaledale.’

  Bingo! Tom tried to hide his joy. Swaledale. Well, that narrowed things down a little. He’d just have to find out where Swaledale actually was.

  ‘There might not be anything special about Swaledale but I still need to talk to Molly.’

  ‘And you want me or my husband to tell you exactly where she is?’

  ‘It would be most helpful.’

  ‘But why should I?’

  Tom gave an inward sigh. Mrs Bailey was proving to be a rather cool customer. ‘Because it might benefit you.’

  ‘Benefit? How?’

  Tom could see he was going to have to be more direct. ‘Mrs Bailey, has Molly come into any money recently?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Inherited any, for example?’

  ‘Inherited? God!’ She gave a hearty laugh. ‘You obviously don’t know the Baileys.’

  ‘Or won any, maybe?’

  ‘Won? Like the lottery?’

  Tom nodded. ‘Anything’s possible.’

  ‘But she would have said something, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘You’d be surprised what people do when they win,’ Tom said, as if he knew.

  ‘How do you know about this?’

  ‘Just a lead I was given.’

  Mrs Bailey screwed her face up in confusion. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. She would have told us if she’d come into money.’

  Tom shifted uneasily in the sofa. He could sense that he wasn’t going to get any more information out of this woman. ‘Has she a mobile phone I can contact her on?’ he tried with limited optimism.

  ‘Molly? You must be joking. She can’t afford one of those.’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth Tom could almost see her brain tick-ticking away, weighing the possibilities.

  ‘I’d better make a move,’ Tom said, making an effort to separate his bottom from the sunken middle of the sofa. ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Bailey.’

  She stared at him, eyes wide with wonder.

  ‘Bye then,’ he said, holding his hand out to shake hers. She took it silently and he let himself out of the house.

  Most peculiar, Carolyn thought, as soon as the door was shut. Molly – come into money? No! It was ridiculous. She definitely would have said something. They didn’t have any secrets from each other. Did they? Carolyn shook her head. She supposed she should check on Marty.

  Heading out of the living room, she almost jumped out of her skin as she collided with him at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Marty!’

  ‘Who the hell was that man?’ he growled. ‘And what’s all this about Molly and money?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  After scuffing his shoes on the dodgy path again, Tom got back in the car and reached for his road atlas.

  ‘OK?’ Flora asked without lifting her nose from out of her book.

  ‘Fine,’ Tom said, quickly finding out that Swaledale was in North Yorkshire. He sighed. More petrol. Still, he supposed he should be grateful it wasn’t in North Wales.

  ‘Flo, we’re moving.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, closing her book and doing up her seat belt. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Swaledale.’

  Flora giggled.

  ‘I know. There are some ridiculously named places round here.’

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Tom said, pulling out and heading towards the A66.

  It was almost dark by the time they checked into a small hotel in Hawes. They’d been turned away by a fair few bed and breakfasts, and had been advised to try Hawes which wasn’t exactly in the right direction. Still, he couldn’t have his girl sleeping in the car, could he?

  After sharing a packet of Mini Cheddars, and marching Flora into the shower, he thought it time he made a move. He didn’t like leaving Flora alone. Anise would kill him if she ever found out, but what other choice did he have? He’d made sure she had his mobile phone number if anything happened and had told her he’d be back as soon as possible, and certainly no later than midnight.

  ‘I’ll be all right, Dad. Stop fussing!’ she said.

  ‘You’ve got my number right there.’

  ‘I know!’

  Tom ruffled her hair and bent down to kiss her cheek. She smelt of apple blossom. All fresh and fragrant.

  ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘Go!’

  ‘OK. Night-night.’

  ‘Night, Dad.’

  Tom left the hotel and got back in the car. To be honest, he could have done with a quiet night in: just him, Flo and his guitars. He smiled, remembering summer holidays past when they’d get all hippie after a barbecue: him strumming and Flo singing. He could do with a dose of that right now. He didn’t feel like trailing round pubs in what might prove a fruitless search for a story he might never end up writing or selling. And what would happen then? He didn’t have a job to go back to. He was out in the world without even a decent reference to his name. The pressure was on him to find this Molly.

  Switching the car light on, he gazed down at the map. There was only one main road through Swaledale, an ambling, rambling road which followed the River Swale. It was fairly long. Where would he start? He stroked his chin. He didn’t suppose it mattered where he started as long as he got a move on.

  Marty’s face was as dark as a storm cloud as he banged kitchen cupboards and drawers in his attempt to make himself a cup of coffee.

  ‘Have you got a headache?’ Carolyn dared to ask.

  He nodded. ‘Where’s the sugar?’

  Carolyn pointed to the canister standing where it always did, arms crossed against her chest, waiting for him to say something first. The trouble was, Marty had overheard the last part of Tom Mackenzie’s questioning and wouldn’t let it go now, which meant that he’d completely forgotten about their own
argument that morning. After the reporter had left, Marty had demanded Carolyn told him everything that had been said then looked as if he didn’t believe a single word of it. But the strange thing was, she didn’t feel like shouting at him anymore. That moment had passed. Somewhere between the frustration and the crying, her anger had simply bled away. She felt exhausted with it all. What she needed was a long, hot soak in the bath.

  ‘I’m going for a bath,’ Marty said abruptly and, for a brief moment, Carolyn was tempted to tell him to put his head under the water three times and take it out twice, but she managed to resist.

  There was certainly no difficulty finding a pub in Swaledale and, after visiting The Heifer and The Ram’s Head, Tom found The Miner’s Inn. A cosy, cottage-like pub, it had all the requirements: dark beams studded with horse brasses, an inglenook fireplace and an atmosphere soaked with ale.

  Tom had been under the impression that it would be a quiet, sleepy sort of place but he couldn’t have been more wrong. The noise level almost knocked him over. He approached the bar through a crowd of people who were ordering drinks like there was no tomorrow. The barman, who was rather red in the face, was doing his best to cope.

  Tom waited his turn, watching as the bar slowly became less congested. Finally, the barman turned to Tom.

  ‘Hope you’ve not been waiting too long,’ he said, the colour still high in his cheeks.

  ‘No,’ Tom said. ‘Is it usually this busy?’

  ‘If it was, I’d be retired by now,’ he chuckled. ‘Pint?’

  ‘Half, thanks,’ Tom said, remembering he might have to cover quite a few pubs before he actually found out anything about where Molly Bailey might be.

  As the barman placed the glass in front of him, Tom looked round at the locals. There were small groups of people nestled round tables but, in the corner by the fireplace, was a larger group. They were talking loudly and one chap, in particular, seemed to be the centre of attention.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Tom asked. ‘Is he the man buying everyone a round?’

  The barman didn’t seem to have heard and continued polishing glasses. Tom was just about to repeat his question when the barman looked up.

  ‘Lord Henry. Owns Whitton Castle further up the dale.’

  ‘This is his regular?’

  ‘Well,’ the barman said grinning, ‘I wouldn’t quite put it like that. He drops in occasionally, same as most folk round here, but he prefers to entertain in the castle, if you know what I mean.’

  Tom nodded, noticing the naughty gleam in the barman’s eyes.

  ‘Wealthy, is he?’

  The barman chortled. ‘You’ve not seen Whitton Castle, have you?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘It’s not exactly Buckingham Palace.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Mouldy old shell of a place. It’s usually everyone else who has to buy him a drink, not the other way round.’

  Tom turned round and looked across at the impoverished lord.

  ‘Another round of drinks, Dave!’ a ruby-cheeked Lord Henry bellowed across the pub, then, staggering to his feet, he made an unsteady route towards the bar. ‘And a bag of nuts for me,’ he added, burping loudly. And then he noticed Tom. ‘Hello there!’ he said. ‘Henry Hewson! How do you do?’

  ‘Tom Mackenzie. How do you do?’

  ‘Very well, Tom Macrenzie. Very well indeed.’

  Tom was almost knocked off his stool with the smell of alcohol. He’d obviously been knocking back the drinks for some time now.

  ‘So what brings Tom Macrenzie to our little local?’

  Tom took a swig of ale, measuring his answer. ‘Holiday,’ he said.

  ‘Ah!’ Lord Henry waved a finger in the air. ‘Then you’ll be visiting my place, will you? Up the dale? Bloody big castle: battlements, dungeons – the damned lot – can’t miss it!’

  ‘I’d be delighted.’

  ‘Good! Good!’

  The barman gave him his bag of peanuts and Tom watched as he struggled to open them.

  ‘Blasted things,’ he said, his thick fingers slipping down the packet. ‘A man could starve to death whilst trying to get into them.’ He tried again and in a split second the whole bag had ripped, causing a peanut volcano to erupt over Tom. ‘Bugger! God. I am sorry. Here,’ he said, stumbling forward. ‘Let me.’ Lord Henry was just about to collect the peanuts that had settled in Tom’s lap when Tom stopped him.

  ‘No. It’s fine. Let me buy you another packet.’

  ‘Gracious, no! Wouldn’t hear of it. Look!’ Lord Henry flashed a wad of notes at him. ‘Flush – today!’ he said, waving a wad of fifty-pound notes under Tom’s nose.

  ‘Makes a change!’ the barman laughed.

  Lord Henry chortled. ‘It certainly does.’

  ‘Won the pools or something?’ the barman asked.

  ‘You could say that!’ Lord Henry beamed.

  Tom was immediately on red alert. A down-on-his-luck lord in Swaledale who’d suddenly got a wad of fifty-pound notes.

  ‘Let me tell you a little sh-secret,’ Lord Henry slurred, leaning in a little closer to Tom and encompassing him in a shroud of alcoholic fumes. ‘Women are amazing!’

  Tom grinned. ‘You don’t need to tell me,’ he said, quietly thinking of his own little lady asleep at the hotel and how he wished he could get back to her as quickly as possible.

  ‘I’m shure I don’t,’ Lord Henry said with a wicked wink. ‘Look!’ he said, waving the wad of fifty-pound notes again. ‘A woman gave me this!’

  Tom felt his spine tingle in anticipation. ‘Really?’

  ‘Shertainly did! Couldn’t believe my eyes.’

  ‘She just gave you all that?’

  ‘No. There’s more. But that’s at home,’ Lord Henry said, patting his nose with a finger. ‘Got to save a bit for the old house.’

  ‘She must be quite a woman!’ Tom said, carefully feeding him a line in the hope for more information.

  ‘Quite a woman! You’re not wrong there. And she was beautiful too! Beautiful and loaded! Bloody good mix, that!’

  ‘However did you find her?’

  ‘In my garden! Was out having a smoke and there she was – just sitting in the sun with her dog. Bare legs up to her armpits and a bosom to die for!’

  ‘Great Scott!’

  ‘Molly!’

  ‘Molly?’

  ‘Her name was Molly. Molly the dolly!’ Lord Henry guffawed. ‘And her hair! Big, black, bouncy curls like I’ve never seen before.’ His red face glazed over and, for a moment, Tom thought he was going to swoon right off his bar stool.

  ‘So how come she ended up at your castle?’ Tom asked, trying to keep Lord Henry on track.

  ‘No idea!’ he said, sighing loudly. ‘God, it’s swarm in here,’ he said, reaching into his trouser pocket and pulling out an enormous hanky. As he did so, something dropped onto the floor.

  ‘What’s that?’ Tom asked, spying a glimpse of yellow.

  ‘She gave it to me,’ Lord Henry said, picking up a flower and spinning it round in his hand. ‘’Fraid it’s not taken kindly to living in my pocket.’

  Tom smiled. It was a sunshine daisy. Lord Henry had been Mollied, that was for sure. ‘So where is she now?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah!’ Lord Henry waved a finger in the air as if he wanted to keep it a secret but then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘No idea!’ he conceded. ‘Didn’t like to ask where she was going. She’s just one of those people, I guess. Never shaw her before and will never shee her again.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘Shame,’ Lord Henry agreed. ‘But she said something about Bradford. Asked me the best route.’

  ‘Bradford?’

  ‘Yes. Guess she’s heading to the big city. Not much for a young gal out in these parts apart from randy old lords like me, eh?’

  ‘Guess not,’ Tom said. ‘So you’ve no idea where she’s staying.’

  Lord Henry stared at him. ‘Why? Fancy a piece for yourself, do you?’


  Tom couldn’t help but smile. ‘You could say that!’

  ‘You dirty old bugger! Here!’ he yelled to the barman. ‘Another drink for my mate—’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ve really got to go, but thanks all the same.’

  ‘Pleasure! And don’t forget to visit my humble home,’ Lord Henry said, pointing in the direction somewhere beyond the gents’ toilets.

  ‘I won’t forget,’ he said, thinking that he’d have to make a move to Bradford first thing in the morning. It was a shame really. It would have been nice to amble around the Dales for a day but this was no holiday.

  Tom left the pub, a wicked grin lighting his face. ‘Got you, Molly Bailey!’ he said out loud. ‘You’re mine!’

  As Molly’s head hit the rather lumpy pillow in the bed and breakfast, she grimaced. Not because she was pining for her marshmallow-soft pillow at home but because she was beginning to regret her actions earlier that day.

  She hadn’t meant to sleep with Lord Henry – truly she hadn’t – but a strange, compelling mix of charm and wine had been spurring her on. She’d become completely absorbed by the moment. The countryside, the gardens, the castle, the lord: all had merged into one magical, mesmerising moment, and she’d grasped it – him – with both hands.

  It had been the weirdest experience. She’d never done it on a trestle table before. It was one of those things that you read about in bad romantic books. The thick stone walls of the castle exuded cold whilst their hot flesh melted into each other; the table smooth and warm against her back – that sort of thing. The truth of the matter was that it had been the most uncomfortable encounter she’d had since being short of money in the supermarket, and one she certainly wouldn’t be repeating.

  Still, it had been good fun. She wasn’t sure if it had been her own ample charms or the charms of her ample fist full of money that had caused Lord Henry to become amorous, but she didn’t really mind. It had seemed an age since her last encounter and it had felt nice to be appreciated again. And he had certainly been appreciative.

  ‘Good lord!’ he’d hollered when she’d got up to leave. ‘I don’t know what to say.’ He’d peered down at her through his thick fringe. ‘Golly, Molly!’ he’d said, which had made her laugh. ‘That was really something, and I’m not just saying that.’