“Micky? What are you talking about, Sofia?”
“Nothing, nothing, you just look like Mickey Mouse in that hat.”
The man looked very confused.
Molly glanced upward, then saw a scruffy pigeon flying toward her. It flapped over and landed on her arm. She knew at once it was Micky.
“Good lord, Sofia,” her husband exclaimed. “Get that filthy bird off you.” He lunged toward Micky the pigeon, who fluttered upward and then back down to perch again on her shoulder.
“Don’t worry, Wilf. The poor bird’s just being friendly. Now I must use the bathroom in that restaurant, dear. Please wait here.”
Without waiting for Wilf’s reaction, and still with Micky the pigeon on her shoulder, Molly as Sofia waddled to the curb. She looked left and right, and crossed the road.
A mile and a half away, the truck that was carrying Petula and her new friend Stanley pulled into the Nine Elms Flower Market. It drove around the vast covered building and parked. The giant plastic electric doors were in operation, opening and shutting as flower sellers wheeled trolleys piled high with boxes of flowers inside. Stan’s driver climbed out of his truck, and Petula and Stanley the bulldog heard him greet an old friend.
“How are ya? Cor, me legs ain’t ’alf stiff. Don’t feel like unloadin’ this lot now. Fancy a pint?”
“That’s the spirit.”
“See you later, Stanley. Good dog.” And then their voices receded into the distance.
Stanley pushed his nose under the tarpaulin at the side of the truck to check they’d gone.
“Here we go, luv,” he said to Petula. “Squeeze past ’ere, and we’ll get you sorted.” He disappeared past some flower boxes and hopped off the truck. Petula followed him. After a leap onto a bale of cardboard and a jump onto a crate full of flowerpots, she was down.
Stanley had already found his friend.
“How long you been standin’ here all on yer Jack Moss?”
“Not long,” said his friend, a small brown-and-white Jack Russell with a cheeky face and an amused look in his eye.
“Do your people know you’re out?”
“The boys were playing a card game with their dad. Let myself out of the dog flap. See you found yourself a girlfriend, Stan.”
“I’d be so lucky! This is Petula. Petula, meet Magglorian. He’s got a good loaf a’ bread, and he’ll be able to ’elp ya.” Magglorian smiled and nodded. Petula smiled back, a little bit embarrassed by the introduction.
“Loaf of bread is head in rhyming Cockney,” Magglorian said. “Talking to Stan here can be like talking to someone who’s speaking double Dutch.” Magglorian laughed. “Nice to meet you, Petula. So how can I help?”
“I’m trying to find the children that I live with. They’ve disappeared,” Petula began. “A woman has taken them.”
Magglorian’s eyes widened.
And so Petula told Magglorian what had happened. Magglorian frowned and shook his head so that his brown ears flapped. “Hmm.” When Petula got to the bit about hypnotism, she saw Magglorian give Stanley a “I see we’ve got a right one here” look, which annoyed her.
“Look, mister, you can believe what you like,” Petula said. “I haven’t got time to waste trying to persuade you.” She turned to Stanley. “Thanks for the lift. I should be just fine now. Really, thank you so much, Stanley. Good- bye.”
Petula didn’t pay Magglorian another glance. She turned and began walking away.
“Magglorian, how come you did that?” Stanley asked, amazed by his friend’s behavior.
“It is a bit far-fetched, Stanley. Come on, you have to admit it, it is a bit crazy.”
“Well, I believe her,” Stanley said. “And I’m going to help her.” With that, Stanley trotted after Petula. Magglorian watched them go. Then he barked.
“Wait! I’m coming, too.” He ran after the other dogs. “I’m sorry, Petula,” he said, panting as he arrived. “I’d search the world over for the boys who own me if I ever lost them. Let me help you find your friends.”
A Glitz doorman in a red suit with gold braid on its shoulders and a smart black cap opened the door to the hotel for Molly the old woman. Molly thanked him, adding, “Is this the way to the restaurant, young man?” She hoped that was where Black had gone.
She felt very out of place in her shabby coat and her old-fashioned cobbled leather boots, but she knew from experience that if you act like you are supposed to be somewhere, people usually believe you. As the doorman pointed down the lavishly carpeted orange passage, thronged with golden lamps, Molly noticed Micky, who was still a pigeon, hop behind him.
“Thank you very much,” she said gratefully, and started making her way along to the arched entrance of the restaurant at the end of the corridor. Molly marveled at what it was like to be eighty-two. Her legs were stiff as wood, and her joints felt tight. As for the woman’s memories, Molly could tell that she had only seen a fraction of them. The others, as though in a thousand-mile-deep glacier, were hidden in the deep waters of her mind.
“May I help you?” a slim hostess asked, eyeing Molly as Sofia’s woolly hat.
“A table for one, please,” Molly demanded.
“Do you have a booking, madam?” the hostess inquired.
