Molly's Millions

by Victoria Connelly

  Molly had smiled at him, allowing him to lie to her without batting an eyelid. If the stack of empty wine bottles was anything to go by, then Lord Henry was definitely not short of lady friends.

  Now, Molly sighed the sigh of a sated woman. She liked men, which was just as well because they seemed to like her. Since she was fourteen, she hadn’t been able to walk to the local shops without being tooted or whistled at, and the once shy girl had courted the attention too: hitching her school skirt up a few inches before she walked through the school gate and smudging kohl round her already enormous eyes. Her poor perplexed father hadn’t been able to cope.

  ‘You need a mother,’ he’d mumble under his breath whilst shaking his head in despair. Molly had always noted his use of the phrase a mother rather than your mother.

  For Molly, romance had been a release; it was something carefree and beautiful, a world away from the restraint and restrictions of the Bailey household. And that’s what this afternoon had been: a wonderful romantic release. She giggled at the memory. Trouble was, she couldn’t sleep now.

  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.

  Chapter Fifteen

  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.

  Chapter Sixteen

  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 ce
lebration. 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.