Tom and Flora had wandered through endless stretches of galleries, heaving themselves up and down endless staircases and peering into endless cabinets. It was all so daunting. It reminded Tom of his disastrous trip to the Louvre in Paris when he’d spent all of half an hour there before suffocating under a blanket of boredom and deciding to spend the rest of the day in a smoky bar on the Left Bank.
That’s what museums did to him: the first ten minutes were wonderful; full of promise, expectation and excitement, but then something happened. Expectation died and was quickly replaced by a feeling like no other: it was as if he’d aged a hundred years. He adopted what he came to call ‘museum leg’ where the slightest movement was an agony of tiredness. Then there were his eyes, frozen with fatigue, and his mouth as parched as if the sun had set up home there.
No, as long as he was alive, he’d be forever trapped into visiting museums and being thoroughly bored by them.
‘It’s good here, isn’t it, Daddy?’ Flora beamed up from examining some Death Pit jewellery.
‘Marvellous,’ Tom said, secretly hating it all. He couldn’t be doing with all the regimental order and the information plaques. What fascinated him the most wasn’t what was on display but the stories behind the displays: the people who had once been housed in the sarcophagi. Where were all the bodies now? And who had discovered them? That’s what really interested him. Someone had got out of bed and left home one morning with the explicit task of digging up a mummy. What a weird job. And he’d thought his job was strange enough. At least he didn’t get cursed in his. Well, unless you counted Molly Bailey’s recent diatribe.
However, there was one exhibition that did hold Tom’s attention for more than three seconds. The shabti.
‘They’re like dolls,’ Flora said, peering at the tiny coloured figurines.
‘I can’t believe the Egyptians thought these would perform tasks in the afterlife! Wouldn’t that be the worst? You spend all your life working and, just when you think you’re being laid to rest, you have to go and irrigate some field.’
‘Did they really think a doll could become a servant?’ Flora screwed up her nose in disbelief.
‘If they put a spell on it – yes.’
‘If I put a spell on my toys, would they do my homework for me?’
Tom smiled. ‘It’d be worth a go.’
‘If they sell shabti in the gift shop, I’m going to buy one for you, Daddy, and make it do your work for you. Then we can spend more time together.’
‘Don’t we spend enough time together, then?’
‘Well, we are now but we don’t have much time when I’m at school and you’re at work.’
Tom smiled at his little philosopher. It was true, though. In his job, he was always thinking about what could be turned into an article. Even now, his mind was working overtime on shabtis. He realised that he had some clout now as a journalist: that the public were following him; believed in him, and he knew that the British Museum could do with some positive publicity. Surely he could knock up a modern interpretation of the shabtis?
And then it occurred to him: he wanted to do something to help others. That wasn’t the norm, was it? Didn’t profit always reign supreme with him? Did this mean that he’d finally been Mollied?
Molly travelled through Ancient Egypt to arrive in Greece in a great grey room which housed the Elgin Marbles. Even the light seemed grey, which, to Molly, seemed an appropriate colour for something so old.
Highly strung horses and headless riders galloped round the room, muscles and tendons straining. Wrestling centaurs caught her eye and filled her imagination with mythological mayhem.
But what was so infuriating was the metal railing separating viewer and stone. Sculpture, Molly believed, was made to be touched, and her fingers ached to trace the curls of the soldiers’ hair and the wheels of the horse-drawn chariots.
Tom was beginning to lose his patience. He’d been squashed, scraped and sneezed on as Flora had chosen a postcard of an exhibit he couldn’t even remember seeing.
‘Flora,’ he said, putting an arm firmly on her bird-like shoulder, ‘time to go, I think.’
‘Can we just take one more look at the sarcrofiguses?’
Tom frowned. He was hot and tired and wanted a shower and drink.
‘It’s just over there,’ Flora said. ‘No stairs,’ she added, seeming to read her father’s mind.
‘OK, but quickly.’ He followed her through, looking at the sarcophagus lids, which were so huge that they reminded him of the giant’s grave in Penrith. God, that seemed like an age ago now. He wondered how many miles they’d driven since then but tried not to think about the petrol cost and the bed and breakfast bills.
He looked at his watch. The museum would be closing soon. They’d better make a move.
But when he looked up he couldn’t see Flora anywhere.
Molly was transfixed by a large horse’s head sitting on a plinth like a leftover prop from The Godfather. No body, no dignity and only half an ear; Molly felt almost ashamed to look at him.
She wasn’t the only one to be mesmerised either. A young girl was standing beside her. Molly turned and smiled down at her.
‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ Molly said, nodding towards the horse’s head.
‘Yes. But he looks so sad.’
‘A head shouldn’t be on a plinth.’
‘Where’s his body?’ the girl asked, looking round the room in case she’d missed it.
‘I don’t know.’
‘He looks strange,’ the girl said.
‘He doesn’t want to be here,’ Molly said. ‘I don’t think any of it does.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they don’t belong here. They were collected by the Earl of Elgin when he was in Greece. He sent them back to England and they ended up here. But the Greeks want it all back.’
‘Then we wouldn’t be able to look at it,’ the girl pointed out.
‘No, we wouldn’t. Not unless we travelled to Greece.’
‘Do you think it’s wrong to keep it?’ the girl asked.
Molly nodded. ‘I do. There are people who believe that, if it wasn’t for the Earl of Elgin, the marbles would have been destroyed, but,’ she paused, ‘I still don’t think it’s right to take what isn’t yours. It’s different if it had been given to the museum as a gift from the Greeks but it’s stolen really.’
‘Will the Greeks steal it back?’
Molly smiled down at the girl. ‘Not with all this security. And imagine carrying something like this. It’s not the easiest thing to shift, is it?’
‘God! Flora!’ a man’s voice suddenly filled the room, causing everybody in it to turn round.
‘Daddy!’
‘I thought I’d lost you again! Where have you been?’ The man bent down and wrapped his arms round her. ‘I thought you were talking to Ramesses II?’
‘I got bored of Ancient Egypt, so I came in here.’
‘But you forgot to take me with you!’
‘It’s all right,’ the girl assured him. ‘I met a kind lady.’
The girl’s father looked up at Molly and it was only then that she realised who it was. It was Tom Mackenzie.
Her heart did a quick flip and her mouth went quite dry. Would he recognise her? And, if he did, what would he say to her? It had been one thing to speak to him on the telephone but she wasn’t sure she was ready for a proper meeting just yet. Her job wasn’t done. Molly Bailey’s mission wasn’t yet complete. She still felt suspended in a parallel universe and didn’t feel ready to come back down to earth and explain herself just yet.
‘Look at the horse’s head, Daddy,’ the girl said and Tom turned away for a moment.
Molly took her chance and fled, her light feet carrying her quickly down the long room and out of the door into Ancient Egypt. She heard him calling after her but he was obviously not keen to pursue her at the risk of losing his daughter again.
Running out of the museum, she fled dow
n the steps, flung another fifty-pound note to the bemused Chinese girls, grabbed Fizz’s lead and ran.
Tom grabbed Flora’s hand and ran out of the museum as fast as he could but at the top of the steps a wall of flesh stopped his passage. It was the Americans.
‘Excuse me!’ Tom all but shouted.
‘Pardon?’ the American woman drawled, stepping back onto Tom’s right foot.
Tom yelled out in pain.
‘Oh my Gard!’ the American woman exclaimed. ‘Is there something I can do?’
For a split second, Tom was very tempted to say, ‘Well, you could start by losing ten stone,’ but bit his tongue.
‘She’s gone!’ Flora said. ‘Where did she go?’
‘She couldn’t have gone far.’
‘I can’t see her anywhere.’
‘Damn it,’ Tom said under his breath and received a reprimanding look from Flora.
‘It’s all my fault.’
‘You couldn’t possibly have known, Flo. Don’t worry about it.’
They stood in silence for a moment, looking down into the forecourt of the museum, but they couldn’t see her.
‘How could she vanish so quickly?’ Tom said.
‘It’s like Cinderella!’ Flora said.
‘But there’s absolutely no clue where she’s gone.’ Tom shook his head in annoyance. He’d come so close to her at last but he’d lost her yet again. Well, at least until tomorrow.
Tom sighed as he and Flora left the British Museum and, as they walked down the shallow steps, something occurred to him. It had been Tom Mackenzie the man and not Tom Mackenzie the journalist that had wanted to talk to Molly.
Chapter Forty-Three
The Baileys were having breakfast in a cheap hotel in Victoria. Marty had already been out to buy a copy of Vive! and was sat reading it out over his cornflakes.
‘Well, I was right,’ he said, finishing Tom Mackenzie’s report. ‘She’s bowing out at seven o’clock tonight at The Monument.’
‘We’ll have to make sure we get there before her, then, won’t we?’ Magnus said.
Marty nodded. ‘That might be easier said than done. With this sort of publicity, think of the number of people who might show up.’
‘Shush! Listen,’ Old Bailey suddenly hushed, and the four of them listened to a radio that was blaring from the kitchen.
‘So it looks as if Molly’s finally decided to give us Londoners some loot,’ the voice was saying. ‘If you haven’t yet heard, Molly Bailey plans to be at The Monument at seven o’clock this evening. It promises to be a night to remember!’
Marty sighed. ‘That’s it, then. There’ll be no chance of stopping her.’
‘We can still go, though,’ Carolyn chipped in. She, for one, was not going to miss Molly’s big moment.
‘We can go and see exactly what she’s up to!’ Magnus said. ‘Stupid girl, what does she think she’s doing? She’s making nothing but a spectacle of herself.’
‘I’m not sure Granddad should come, though,’ Marty said. ‘It’s going to be very crowded.’
‘What?’ Old Bailey barked over his second round of toast. ‘Not come!’ he said, turning a dangerous shade of purple. ‘I’ve come all the way from bloody Penrith. I’m not going to miss this!’ he grumbled, winding his scarf around his scrawny neck.
‘Blimey, Molly. You must be gobsmacked!’ Jo said, as they left the hotel that morning. Molly hadn’t told Jo about her encounter with Tom and Flora at the British Museum. She knew Jo would just tell her off for running away and, right now, Molly had enough to be coping with.
‘I am gobsmacked!’ Molly said. ‘I’ve lost a brother, but gained a half-brother, a stepfather and an estranged mother.’
‘Blimey!’ Jo said again. ‘Not quite what you’d expected.’
Molly nodded. ‘I know.’
‘What was she like, then – your mother?’
‘She was…’ Molly began, but seemed lost for words, ‘… content.’
Jo’s face scrunched up in bemusement. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Everything about her life – the way she spoke, the way she walked,’ Molly tried to explain. ‘She just oozed contentment. I’ve never ever seen that in anyone before.’
‘When are you going to see her again?’
‘I’m not sure. Soon. We said soon.’
‘So what now?’ Jo asked.
Molly nodded, as if pushing all thoughts of family to the back of her mind so as to focus on the here and now. ‘I’ve got to get ready for this evening.’
‘You know, you’ve still not told me what you’re up to.’
Molly smiled. ‘I’ve got a favour to ask you.’
‘What?’
‘Will you help me? I think I’m going to need an extra pair of hands tonight.’
Jo grinned and there was a naughty light in her eyes. ‘You bet I will!’ she said.
‘I suppose we should make the most of being in London,’ Marty said as they left the hotel. ‘It’s not often we’re down here,’ he added, taking Carolyn’s hand.
Carolyn almost leapt at his touch. It was the first romantic gesture in days. At once, she started to get excited. ‘How about Covent Garden?’ she suggested. ‘I’ve always wanted to go there.’
‘What about Dad and Granddad? We don’t want to do too much walking today.’
‘They don’t have to. We could go there on our own, couldn’t we?’ she suggested, hoping that this would be their chance to talk; that this would be her moment to break her news.
‘Caro! We can’t just leave them.’
‘Why not? They’re grown men. We don’t have to babysit them.’ Carolyn’s voice rose to match his. ‘And then,’ she added, her voice softer and sweeter, ‘we can do exactly what we want.’
Marty turned back and watched his father and grandfather ambling along the pavement, moaning at the crowds.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said.
Carolyn beamed. ‘Great!’ she said, kissing him on the cheek. Maybe he wasn’t completely beyond redemption after all.
‘Caro!’ he complained. ‘Kissing in the middle of the street!’
She tutted at his response. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s go shopping.’
After arranging to meet Magnus and Old Bailey for tea, Carolyn and Marty left for Covent Garden. Summer sunshine flooded the streets and brought the tourists out in full force. Carolyn, who was feeling surprisingly well after an initial bout of morning sickness, was in the mood to shop and, as they peered in a row of windows, Marty cleared his throat. ‘Caro,’ he began.
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve been meaning to apologise for the last few days. I know it’s not been easy for you to put up with three Bailey men at once.’
Carolyn was about to say, no it bloody hasn’t been, but thought better of it. He was making an effort, and she knew just how hard it was for him to do that.
‘And I’d like to make it up to you.’
‘You would?’ She looked up at him and caught a smile so rare, it was like being given a gift.
‘I’d like to buy you something,’ he said, gesturing to the row of shops.
Carolyn bit her lip. She’d already seen half a dozen items she knew would look great in her wardrobe. ‘Marty – thank you!’
‘Is there anything you’ve seen?’
Carolyn smiled and nodded. She felt like a little girl again. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘As a matter of fact, there is.’
‘Where?’
Carolyn pointed to a shop they’d passed a couple of minutes ago and they retraced their steps.
‘There!’ she said, pointing to a divine floaty dress in summer-sky blue. ‘What do you think? Isn’t it beautiful?’
Marty nodded. ‘It’s lovely,’ he said.
‘Shall I try it on?’ Carolyn asked, her voice vibrating with excitement.
‘How much is it?’
‘We’ll find out after I’ve tried it on,’ she said.
‘Hang on a minute,’
Marty said suddenly, pointing to a little white plaque by the mannequins. ‘Are those the prices?’
Carolyn’s eyes followed his finger. She knew what was coming. Reality had kicked in and she was about to kiss the dress goodbye. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders.
‘That’s outrageous! I’ve never seen anything so ridiculous in my life!’
‘Marty – we’re in London. That’s what you pay for designer goods.’
‘It’s not what I pay! I’m sorry, Carolyn, but you must have confused me with a rich man.’
‘Then why did you say—?’
‘I’m not paying that for a silly piece of material. Look! There’s barely anything there! You couldn’t blow your nose on it!’
Carolyn felt her shoulders slump and her anger swell. ‘Marty – you’re impossible! I just can’t believe you sometimes!’ she yelled, causing several heads to turn and a busker to stop busking. ‘And you were right – it’s not been easy being with you three men for the duration of the summer. It’s been an absolute nightmare if you must know.’
‘Caro!’
‘You’ve not considered me at all. You don’t know what’s going on with me, do you? Well, I’ve had enough. I’ve put up with this for long enough, and it’s got to stop.’
‘Hey!’ Marty shouted.
But it was too late: she’d already fled into the crowds and disappeared.
Tom looked at the front page of Vive! and grinned. Molly at The Monument. Beautifully simple and highly effective. But it wasn’t the only reason he was smiling. He’d been offered a permanent position at Vive! that morning. It would take some thinking about, though. It would mean moving house for a start and he wasn’t sure he wanted to do that. He saw little enough of Flora as it was.
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