Molly's Millions

by Victoria Connelly

  ‘Molly?’ he said, aghast, almost dropping his chips.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ He flung the cone of chips into Flora’s hand and pulled out a pad and pen from his trouser pocket.

  Flora poked him in the ribs. ‘Molly Bailey?’ she whispered up at him.

  Tom nodded, but he wasn’t quite prepared for what happened next.

  ‘I just wanted to ask you, why don’t you use your column for something useful for a change? I’ve just had my car stolen and all you can think to write about is tittle-tattle about my private life! Well, I bet you didn’t know that that thieving bastard jockey stole two and a half grand from my handbag!’

  ‘Whoa! Hang on a minute,’ Tom interrupted. ‘I’m not sure I’m getting all of this.’

  ‘You’re not very quick for a reporter, are you?’ Molly fired.

  ‘Just a sec,’ Tom said.

  ‘If you think I’m going to speak slowly so you can write all this down, then you’ve got more nerve than I’ve credited you for,’ she said.

  ‘Declan O’Hara stole from you?’

  ‘Two and a half thousand pounds.’

  ‘But there’s more where that came from, isn’t there?’ Tom said.

  ‘That’s not the point, is it? I had special plans for that money and he had no business to touch it.’

  ‘What plans?’

  Molly paused before answering. ‘What would you care? You’re only after stuff that’s sensational.’

  Tom raked his hands through his hair and frowned into the phone. ‘I think you’ve got the wrong impression of me, you know.’

  ‘Oh, have I?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, you have! I’m only doing my job—’

  ‘Well, your job—’

  ‘—and if I didn’t do it – somebody else would!’ he finished, nodding his head in satisfaction.

  There was a brief pause. Finally, Molly spoke. ‘I rang to give you a piece of my mind and to tell you that what you’re doing is immoral, inconsiderate and downright rude.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘And I don’t like your tone of voice. You really don’t know how much damage you’ve done.’

  ‘What have I done?’

  He heard her sigh down the phone and suddenly began to feel a little bit guilty.

  ‘I’m not sure yet, but your articles are being read by my friends and family.’

  Tom started. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. Naive as it might sound, he hadn’t thought about Molly’s relatives being amongst his readers. They’d always been a kind of faceless, opinionless crowd. Even when he received his emails, he didn’t really think of the senders as being real people, apart from red-haired Rebecca from Bristol, of course.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said and, for some reason, he recalled the photo he’d seen of Molly on the Internet winning the florists’ award and remembered the large dark eyes and the sweetest of faces and, in spite of himself, he felt suddenly protective of her, imagining those lovely eyes filled with consternation. ‘Look, if there’s anything I can do?’ he said in a slightly less urgent, less hungry-reporter-type voice.

  ‘Why can’t anyone understand what I’m trying to do? Is it so hard for people to be nice? Why’s that so difficult? It shouldn’t be unusual.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Do you?’ Molly said, not sounding as if she believed him for a second.

  ‘Yes! That’s why I want to know if there’s anything I can do,’ he said. ‘Is there?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you said you had your car stolen, as well as your money. Maybe I can help. You know – put out an appeal in my column?’

  ‘You’d seriously do that?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘You don’t have to. I’ll do it anyway.’ There was a moment’s silence. ‘So you got yourself a new Beetle?’

  ‘I knew it!’ Molly said. ‘There’s not a good bone in your body. You’re only after more information for your column. Well, you’re not going to get it like that.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Daddy?’

  ‘She’s hung up on me.’

  ‘I don’t think she liked your last question.’

  ‘Have you been earwagging?’

  ‘Of course. I’m the daughter of a journalist.’

  Tom rolled his eyes.

  ‘Why don’t you stop following her, Daddy? Then she won’t be mad at you anymore.’

  ‘We’re following her because she’s an interesting person and newspapers always want stories about interesting people.’

  ‘What makes her interesting?’ Flora looked at her father with intense eyes.

  ‘Well, she’s rather unusual, don’t you think?’

  ‘Because she’s giving all her money away?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that’s unusual, is it?’

  ‘It certainly is.’

  ‘Why?’

  Tom scratched his head. How could he explain human greed to her? How could he explain that sharing wasn’t the norm in the world of adults; that you kept what was yours and that looking after number one was all that mattered. He sighed. ‘People don’t often give things away – for free. They usually want something in return.’

  ‘Like at Christmas?’

  ‘Exactly!’ Tom nodded. ‘Who would give a present to someone they knew wouldn’t give a present to them?’

  Flora looked puzzled for a moment. ‘But they should, shouldn’t they? If they’re nice people.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, smiling with pride at his daughter, ‘they should.’

  ‘And Molly’s a nice person, isn’t she?’

  ‘She certainly is, and I’m going to ring her back – look – don’t you just love technology? I’ve got her number in my phone now.’

  ‘Clever!’ Flora said, finishing the last of her father’s chips.

  ‘Molly?’ There was silence. ‘Are you there? I wanted to apologise. Molly?’

  ‘I’m here. I don’t appreciate you invading my privacy like this.’

  ‘But I just wanted to say sorry.’

  ‘Well, you have now so leave me alone.’

  ‘Can I just explain some things to you about the job I do?’

  ‘I’m not interested so you’d be wasting your breath.’

  ‘The public loves you, Molly,’ he said, deciding to carry on regardless. ‘You do know that, don’t you? I’ve been inundated with emails telling me how horrible I am in chasing you up and down the country. You’ve become the nation’s daughter. Everyone’s so protective of you yet, at the same time, they’re desperate to read about you – want me to find out more about you. You’re a national heroine and God only knows we need more of those,’ he said. ‘Molly?’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘You don’t give up easily, do you?’

  ‘I’ll never give up as long as there’s a story to tell.’

  ‘But what’s so special about me? So I’ve got a bit of money to throw around – so what?’

  Tom smiled. ‘You don’t realise how unique you are, do you? You’re doing something quite extraordinary – you’re being kind. Kind in a world filled with unkindness, you’re generous where most people are seriously ungenerous, you’re—’

  ‘OK! I get the picture, but shouldn’t that be my own private business?’

  ‘You’re also incredibly naive.’

  There was a stunned silence.

  ‘Molly? I’ve upset you again, haven’t I? Shit!’

  ‘Did she hang up again, Daddy?’

  ‘Yes. She did.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The Baileys were waiting to find out where Molly was via Vive!, and Tom was waiting for some email sightings of Molly to come in. The only person who seemed to be on the move was Molly herself and she’d reached Dorset by Saturday evening.
After checking in to a small hotel in Lyme Regis, which had just had a last-minute cancellation and allowed dogs, she spread out her road atlas on the bed. Carlisle to Lyme; Cumbria to Dorset. It was a long way. Molly couldn’t work out exactly how many miles she’d driven, nor did she know how many people she’d helped on the way but she was a good few pounds lighter now than when she’d started and that made her smile.

  The public loves you, Molly. Tom Mackenzie’s voice flooded her ears. Was that true? Did they love her? It was hard to imagine yet it never failed to amaze Molly how a little money could make all the difference. It wasn’t that she was giving it away in order to be thanked; that wasn’t part of her agenda, but she couldn’t help thinking how very little it took to make a person smile.

  After unpacking a few things, she pulled on a light jumper and went out for a walk with Fizz. She was desperate to see what he made of his first trip to the seaside and almost tripped over him several times on their way down the steep hill that led through the town down towards the beach.

  By the time they had walked along the seafront, a cool breeze enveloped them but wasn’t enough to deter Molly from climbing the steps up onto the great grey snake of the Cobb. No matter how hard Fizz pulled, there was no way Molly was going to let him off his lead here. The Cobb was dangerously high for a terrier pup, and a steep incline, from left to right, led straight into the sea.

  She took in a great lungful of salty air. She’d better start stocking up on fresh air in case she had to hotfoot it to London in search of her mother, she thought, wondering how long a lungful lasted and how many she’d need in order to survive the Big Smoke.

  She wondered how Legs was doing in London. Had he found the elusive Cynthia yet? And which part of London was she in, anyway? Molly couldn’t quite imagine. Had she set up home in one of the beautiful wedding-cake houses in Belgravia and was she sloaning around Knightsbridge? No, Molly didn’t think so. For a start, a Bailey divorce settlement wouldn’t allow such luxuries. Still, she might have seen Cynthia on her recent disastrous shopping trip. How strange to think that she might have walked right by her in the street and not even known.

  She still hadn’t decided what she was going to do or say once she knew where her mother was. What did you say to someone you hadn’t seen for sixteen years?

  ‘So, how are things with you?’ No.

  ‘You’ll probably notice I’ve grown quite a bit!’ Definitely no!

  ‘You know you left your cardigan behind?’ Molly giggled in spite of herself.

  She had often speculated on what Cynthia was up to but Marty had always refused to be drawn in.

  ‘She left and she’s not coming back,’ he’d say, as if that was the end of the story. But it wasn’t the end of the story for Molly. There were whole chapters left unexplained. She just wished that Marty could be a part of it too, and felt angry that she couldn’t talk to him about it now with all this fuss being made over her lottery win.

  Staring out across the darkening sea, she wondered, for the hundredth time, how two siblings could be so very different.

  A steady stream of emails seemed to be pointing south.

  ‘Devon!’ Tom announced. ‘Five sightings – look! Too late to leave now, though.’

  Since being chased with a broom from Chartlebury Court, Tom and Flora had decided to bed down near Cirencester in the hope that the slight move south was inching them closer to Molly’s new destination. He smiled smugly as he closed his laptop for the night.

  ‘Did you send the article, Daddy?’ Flora asked with a yawn.

  ‘Went off this afternoon,’ he said. ‘Should be in tomorrow’s issue.’

  ‘It’s a good article,’ Flora said.

  ‘I did my very best on it,’ Tom said, joining his daughter in a yawn and thinking of the promise he’d made to Molly to help her. And he really did want to help her. It was as if Molly’s crusade was becoming his crusade too and that they were linked in this strange mission. He rather liked the idea of that. Molly and Tom – helping the nation to happiness. He could imagine that as a headline.

  ‘Do you think Molly will read it and forgive you?’ Flora asked from somewhere beneath her duvet.

  ‘I think she might,’ Tom said, a smile curving across his unshaven face. ‘I really think she might.’

  It was Sunday morning, and a buttery sun had encouraged the crowds out onto the tiny stretch of sandy beach at Lyme Regis. Molly watched as tots tumbled in the sand, chubby fists pounding castle turrets out of bright plastic buckets whilst mums tried to grab a few moments’ bliss in a paperback, and dads did their best not to get caught eyeing up the beach totty on parade.

  For a moment, Molly thought what great fun it would be to walk amongst them, handing out fifty-pound notes. A smile spread across her face at the thought but, however tempting the idea was, she didn’t want to cause a riot. Still, there was something very appealing about the idea. She’d muse on it for a while and see what she came up with.

  Molly had completely fallen in love with fifty-pound notes. They were rather special, weren’t they? You didn’t come across them every day. They weren’t common like five-pound notes or ten-pound notes. A fifty, with its poppy-red complexion, was a joy to behold – and to let go of, of course.

  Heading back into town in search of some yellow gerbera, and still musing on the magic that was fifty, she couldn’t help overhearing a young couple dragging their daughter away from a shop selling fossils.

  ‘I’ve told you, Melanie, you’ve already spent your holiday money.’

  ‘Come on, Beth, it’s only seven pounds,’ the father said, ‘it’s hardly going to break the bank, is it? And her birthday’s next month. It isn’t every day you get to buy a piece of history for seven pounds.’

  The mother sighed. ‘But she’s spent all her money already, and I’ve only got ten pounds in my purse.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Molly interrupted.

  The mother and father turned round and stared at Molly with suspicion, as if she might be about to try and sell them something.

  ‘I think you dropped this.’

  They both looked down at the fifty-pound note that Molly held out to them.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ the father said.

  ‘But it was right behind you on the pavement,’ Molly insisted.

  ‘Must belong to someone—’

  ‘I think it might be mine, actually,’ the mother interrupted quickly.

  ‘Are you sure, Beth? I thought you only had ten pounds left?’

  Beth glared at him, taking the note from Molly’s hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said in a small voice.

  ‘That’s OK,’ Molly said. ‘You’ll be able to buy your daughter that fossil now, won’t you?’ Molly smiled, looking at the rosy-faced girl with bright-red pigtails.

  Watching them venture back into the shop, Molly looked up and down the high street. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘where do you find yellow gerbera in Lyme?’ She walked up the steep street and suddenly halted outside a shop as she saw a copy of Sunday’s Vive!. Her mouth dropped open as, instead of an obligatory blonde wearing a string vest, she saw an inch-tall headline:

  Mollymobile stolen.

  Molly smiled. Tom Mackenzie had kept his promise.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Donkeys really were the saddest-looking creatures, weren’t they? No matter how much Molly called over to them, they stood in their field looking as if they were in some form of detention. Finally, after a good ten minutes of coaxing, a pale-grey donkey ambled over to her and allowed her to pet his dusty coat. Hanging over the fence, Molly let her dark curls fall over his pale face as she gave him a hug but it didn’t seem to do any good. He still looked like Eeyore.

  ‘Smith!’ Molly announced, finding his name on the collar round his neck. ‘Cheer up, sweetheart!’ she whispered in his ear. ‘You’re beautiful!’

  But, even with a torrent of praise flowing into his ears, he stood, heavy and silent, as Molly petted him.

  She
soon found out that there were about five hundred donkeys at the sanctuary, although not all of them were at the visiting centre, which was just as well because Molly would have been there for ever trying to distribute hugs fairly. She walked around the pathways that skirted the fields, gazing over at the sad-eyed creatures who didn’t seem aware of the visitors desperate to get close to them.

  She had slightly more luck at the feeding barn. There were no fences there: just man and donkey side by side. The sound of munching was quite deafening and made her want to laugh and cry at the same time as she walked in between the docile beasts.

  How could anyone not love a donkey? she thought. How could anyone mistreat them or abandon them or work them to within an inch of their lives?

  Walking into the gift shop, she picked out a few notelets to buy and took them up to a young girl at the till.

  ‘How do I go about making a donation?’ Molly asked.

  ‘There’s a box, here,’ she said with a nod.

  Molly smiled. ‘I don’t think it’s going to fit in there. Is there someone I could speak to?’

  The girl looked up at Molly and suddenly gasped, her hand flying to her mouth dramatically. ‘You’re her, aren’t you?’ Molly’s eyes widened, and she felt herself blushing. ‘You’re Molly!’

  ‘Shush!’ Molly hushed, looking round the shop in case a local reporter was hovering with a notepad.

  ‘God almighty! We were just talking about you the other day, saying we hoped you’d make it down to Devon, and here you are! It is you, isn’t it?’ she asked excitedly and Molly couldn’t help but nod.

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘just keep it quiet.’

  ‘Oh! I know! You’re still trying to avoid that reporter, aren’t you? Did you see him on Susanna the other day? He’s rather dashing, you know.’

  ‘No, I didn’t see him.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind him chasing me round the country!’ the girl giggled, and then managed to recover herself. ‘What’s it like, then?’

  ‘What’s what like?’

  ‘Being chased like that?’

  ‘Like this, you mean. He hasn’t given up yet.’