So Control had already planted the information.
'But my Mum's very ill, my Dad says.'
'Yes, I know. Your father told me.' Mrs Simmonds nodded. 'But you mustn't worry.
There are these drugs they've got now ... and they're finding new ones all the time, you know.'
Plainly, he had gone even further: in order to remove the daughter convincingly and quickly he had made the illness terminal. Nothing less than such a confidence could have turned Mrs Simmonds' anger into sympathy.
But that was the last thing Marilyn Francis would have noticed at this moment, with a sick mum and an inadequate dad on her hands, and young Mitch to meet in half an hour.
She turned to Mrs Simmonds. 'I've got to go and look after her - my Mum. My Dad's dead useless.'
Mrs Simmonds winced at the adjective, but managed to keep the Awful Truth secret.
'Yes, dear - naturally.'
'I mean, I've got to go right now.' Miss Francis reached for her typewriter cover. 'The doctor's coming to see her this afternoon. So I haven't time to see Mr Cavendish. Will you tell him?'
'Of course I will. Don't you worry about that.' Mrs Simmonds frowned suddenly.
'Are you all right for money ... to tide you over, I mean?'
'Money?' Frances realised suddenly that tomorrow was pay day.
Go directly home. Do not pass Go. Do not collect ?58.55.
Mrs Simmonds reached for her bag. 'I could let you have five pounds, dear.'
In the circumstances that was true sisterly generosity.
'And I'll phone up the Agency and tell them what's happened,' said Mrs Simmonds.
'So don't you worry about that either.'
It wasn't sisterly generosity at all; the old bitch had decided that the instant departure of Marilyn was cheap at ?5, especially when the chance of ordering a better class of girl from the Agency was included in the price.
Frances wondered whether Sir Frederick Clinton had a better class of female operative to hand on his books, complete with 140 words a minute Pitman's.
But that was his problem now. More to the point, she wondered whether little Miss Marilyn Francis, painted and dyed, would have enough cash to tide her over at this stage of the week, and what she would do if she hadn't, and her mum was very ill and she was having to throw up her job.
Poor little Marilyn!
Marilyn burst into tears.
CHAPTER TWO
In fact, poor little Marilyn revenged herself twice over on Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon before Paul Mitchell arrived at the transport cafe, once in the person of an elderly lorry-driver who obviously feared that she was running away from home, and advised her against seeking her fortune in Central London, and the second time by a leather- jacketed youth of indeterminate age who obviously hoped she was running away from home, and offered to bear her to the bright lights on the back of his Kawasaki.
So she had been forced to re-animate Marilyn briefly, first to shake her head at the lorry-driver and then to send the Kawasaki owner about his business -
'You're late.' The lorry-driver's concern and the youth's knowing contempt combined with the strains of the morning to fray Frances's nerves.
'Christ! You look awful!' Paul planted a kiss on her cheek before she could avoid him. 'And what's more - you smell awful too!'
'And you're still late. I thought there was an emergency of some sort?'
'There is. But I'm not James Hunt - and if I was it wouldn't have made any difference.
I've come all the way from Yorkshire this morning, non-stop except for the times the Police flagged me down for breaking the speed limit on the motorway - they should have sent a chopper for you, but all they had to spare was me. So get moving, Frances dear - ' Paul picked up her cup and finished off its contents ' - Ugh! Because there are leagues to be covered 'ere 14.30 hours.'
He held the door open for her. The lorry-driver frowned and the Kawasaki youth gave her a jeering look.
'Where are we going?'
Paul pointed to the yellow Rover directly ahead of them. 'Back to Yorkshire again double-quick, if Jack Butler's new car holds together so long. I would have preferred mine, but like you say - it's an emergency.'
She waited until he had settled down into the traffic. 'What's the emergency in Yorkshire?'
'Ah ... now there you've got me, sweetie. So far as I was concerned, everything was going according to plan. By now there's probably total confusion, without Mitchell to put things right. But when I left everything was A- Okay.'
Frances thought for a moment. 'You know they pulled me off a job?'
