“Are you all right, dear?” her husband asked with concern.
Molly floundered for a second as the shock of her situation overwhelmed her. Then, seeing that the old woman’s personality was stronger than she had reckoned on, she concentrated hard. Molly felt like she was wrestling with the lady’s spirit, trying to pin her down. Molly was winning, but not entirely. Finally Molly took control, and the woman’s personality was submerged. As soon as Molly felt she was in charge, she thought apologies to her, explaining to her what was happening. At once, she felt the person who she was in relax.
Molly felt strange. It was extraordinary to be in another human body, and it was an extra shock to be in an old one. Her bones were creaky and stiff, and she could hardly register her muscles. Her bottom was fat and bulgy, and it was very peculiar having two lumps on the front of her chest.
On top of the physical sensations were the mental ones. Molly was at once familiar with the woman’s life and her personal history. She didn’t see every memory at once, of course, for there were billions of them tucked away in the old lady’s mind. But Molly knew that she was called Sofia and that the man beside her was Wilf, her dear husband, who she had married fifty-four years before in a church in Rome.
“I said, are you all right, Sofia?” her husband repeated. Brought to her senses, Molly was now in the moment. She saw two street performers, one with a violin, the other with a flute, who were sitting near the bus stop filling the evening air with their music, and she saw the man, Wilf, looking concernedly at her.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Molly as Sofia said, an Italian accent rounding her words. “I think something stung me, that’s all.”
“Stung you? Where?”
“On my nose,” Molly said. Then she added, “Um, are you there, Micky?”
“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.
“No,” Molly replied, realizing that the hostess was about to refuse her entrance. “And don’t give me any of that ‘we’re full’ nonsense. I can see lots of empty tables.”
“But, madam, all these tables are reserved,” the hostess replied, sneering slightly.
“What? I’m not good enough for this place? Is that it?” Molly said, and immediately she turned to her hypnotic powers now for help. “Look into my eyes.”
Unfortunately, nothing happened. Just as Molly couldn’t mind read in another body, neither could she hypnotize.
“I’m sorry, madam. Really, we are full,” the smug woman retorted.
“Everything all right, dear?” Sofia’s husband, Wilf, had followed her inside. He stood looking very out of place in his beret and long black coat. Molly noticed Micky the pigeon hop behind a cheese trolley. She smiled reassuringly at the old man.