The Girl at the End of the Line Read online

  “Hooters?” said Molly, incredulous.

  “That’s British for horns, you know. Klaxons. I expect you’ll want to rent a car, won’t you?”

  “How long of a drive is it?”

  “Four or five hours. Of course, that’s four or five hours in a car that has the steering wheel on what would be the passenger’s side in your country. And you’ll be driving on the wrong side of the road for you. In a strange country. In the rain. Is there some reason why you don’t wish to take the aeroplane, hmmm?”

  “Maybe because we didn’t know there was one.”

  “Yes, of course, there’s a plane,” said the man with a sigh indicative of long suffering. “A commuter flight to Leeds at let’s see … .” He closed his eyes momentarily, consulted some inner airline schedule and blinked triumphantly. “Departs at two-fifty, gate forty-four F as in Ferdinand the Bull. You can rent a car at Leeds and from there it is only a short drive to Bedlingham and your famous dog show.”

  Molly proffered her thanks. Mr. Tourist Information bowed slightly from the waist, then turned his pained attention to a man with a Texas accent who wanted to know how he could take that James Bond fella out for a drink.

  After changing a few hundred dollars of traveler’s checks into British pounds and booking seats on the flight to Leeds, Molly and Nell had an inedible second breakfast of sticky buns and dishwater coffee at an airport coffee shop. They then wandered around exploring duty-free stores and newsstands until they came to rest at one of the less hectic seating areas. Here Molly read guidebooks and tried without success to nap until their departure, hours away.

  Nell, who could sleep as comfortably on planes as she did on buses and who had gotten a good night’s rest on the trip over, amused herself by watching people and nibbling candy bars, which she could do endlessly without gaining weight.

  Finally they were in the air again, landing this time at a more picturesque location—if picturesque meant old-fashioned and a bit run-down. Leeds itself, which they passed over on the flight in, was just a gray blob they could barely make out, since it was raining here, too, though not as hard as it had been in London.

  The airport car rental lot emptied out directly onto an anonymous modern highway that would not have seemed out of place in New Jersey. Molly pretended to be confident as she drove the little car, which indeed had its steering wheel on the passenger’s side, through traffic that sped along on the wrong side of the road.

  It was only when they got off at the exit designated on the rental agency map, did England begin to look a little more like it was supposed to—a quiet landscape of stone houses, sleepy villages, and ancient-looking forests—though TV antennas, telephone wires, and traffic signs still fought with Molly’s illusions of what the country should be.

  The rain had slowed to a drizzle when they finally reached their destination a little before five o’clock. It was too late to make it to the dog show, which must have been a very wet affair if it had gone on today at all, considering the rain. Fortunately the show had another day to run. The Julians would not be leaving for New Zealand until Friday, the day after tomorrow.

  Bedlingham was technically a city, but it seemed not much bigger than most of the towns through which they had passed. According to one of the guidebooks it had been an important center as early as the fourteenth century, and there were Tudor buildings on the square. One of these was a pub called the Ploughman’s Lunch, which reminded Molly how hungry she was, having had only one candy bar all afternoon to Nell’s six.

  It was a relief to get off the road and into the dark old pub. A crackling fire took all the chill out of the air that the rain had put in. Molly and Nell made their way through a crowd of jovial, ruddy-faced men drinking dark ale at the bar, to a quiet table in the back of the room.

  As Molly squinted at the menu scrawled on a blackboard, she knew for the first time how far from home she was. They didn’t serve bangers and mash in Pelletreau, North Carolina. Or cock-a-leekie soup. Or chip butties. It made her almost homesick for a plate of good old-fashioned American fried calamari.

  A middle-aged woman dressed in slacks and a colorful top approached their table after a few moments, her hands on her hips, a disarming smile on her kind, open face.

  “Aftanoon, ladies” she said. “Wha’ canna gutcha, then?”

  It was English, Molly knew, though the accent was strange and guttural—almost as if she was trying to swallow her words before they emerged.

  “I’ll have the ploughman’s lunch,” said Molly, figuring the pub’s signature dish couldn’t be too horrible if the place had been in business for as long as the oak tavern table they were sitting at seemed to indicate. From its patina and pegged construction Molly knew the table had not been made this century, and perhaps not in the last either. If she had had a shop left and a cheap way to ship it home, Molly would have made them an offer.

  “Ta,” said the waitress. “An’ you, miss?”

  Nell counted down on the blackboard six items.

  “One toad in the ’ole, and one ploughman’s lunch it is,” said the woman, nodding, and hustled back to the kitchen.

  “Toad in the hole?” repeated Molly incredulously. “Are you out of your mind?”

  Nell nodded happily.

  When their lunches arrived, however, it was clear that it was Nell who had gotten the better deal. Molly couldn’t decide whether it was beginner’s luck or whether her sister actually knew something. The ploughman’s lunch was simply a chunk of cheese, a piece of crusty brown bread, and a pickled onion, accompanied by a tall glass of warm dark ale. Toad in the hole, on the other hand turned out to be hearty sausages cooked in some kind of batter, and served with several well-boiled vegetables.

  When Nell had finished the last of the ale—it was too warm for Molly’s taste—the waitress came back and asked in her strangulated dialect whether there would be anything else.

  “Is there some place where we can find a room for the night?” said Molly.

  “Na, miss. Na this time o’ year. The dog show, y’see? Everythin’ is ta’en moonths in advance.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Molly.

  “I ca’ telephone around, if ye like.”

  “That would be very kind of you.”

  “It’s na trouble,” said the waitress. “We don’t get many foreigners in these parts.”

  The woman disappeared through a doorway behind the bar and returned after a few minutes.

  “I found you a place at the inn in Manxton,” she announced with evident pride. S’only a few miles from here, but I best draw you a map.”

  It was another half hour of hard driving on dark, rain-swept roads before Molly finally found the Dainty Shepherds Inn in Manxton. Settled in their room at last, Nell happily played hide-and-seek in the room’s two enormous armoires. Molly collapsed into a overstuffed chair big and soft enough to live in, and waited for the color to return to her knuckles. Clearly she had made the right decision about not driving up all the way from London.

  “Things are going to be different from now on, Nell,” said Molly after a while, staring out across the room to the leaded windows and into the night. “No more Pelletreau, no more dead ends. We’re going to make a whole new start, a whole new life. Everything is possible, just like David said. Can you believe we’re actually here in England?”

  But even if Molly’s sister had been able to speak there would have been no answer. Nell was already asleep in the big bed.

  The next morning was blissfully sunny and warm enough to feel like August again, which it was. Molly had slept soundly and felt rested and more relaxed than she had been in days. The nightmares of the past few weeks seemed like a distant memory.

  After a big English breakfast that included red orange juice, eggs, kippered herring, and strange-looking bacon, they drove the fifteen minutes back to Bedlingham (it was much closer in the daylight apparently), and followed the signs to the dog show.

  Even from a distance the Bedlingh
am dog show was as impressive as Mr. Tourist Information had implied. It was set up in a grassy field outside of Bedlingham that appeared larger in area than the city itself. Cars were backed up from the entrance on the narrow road as far as the eye could see.

  It took a good twenty minutes before Molly and Nell moved to the front of the queue and were able to park. During that whole time Molly didn’t stop talking. If all her hopes had surfaced last night, this morning it was all her doubts and insecurities.

  “Oh, God, don’t let me blow it,” Molly chattered compulsively. “What will I say? Will he listen? You know there’s a chance we won’t even find this Richard Julian person. That would be pretty hysterical, wouldn’t it, after coming all this way? Not that I’m really so eager to meet the guy. I mean, I’m not angry at him or anything. After all, he was never part of our lives. And Grandma got over him years ago, I’m sure. She never even mentioned his name, so she couldn’t exactly have been pining, know what I mean?”

  Nell nodded. She actually seemed to be listening for a change, but her eyes were worried. She kept smoothing her hair with a nervous hand.

  “Our actual grandfather,” Molly went on. “We’re walking around with his genes. What do you say to someone like that? I mean, we can’t just barge up and say, ‘See, here, fella, why did you walk out on Grandma and where will we find the Gales?’ But he’ll know, Nell. He’ll know.”

  Nell nodded again. Molly didn’t feel any more confident, however, as she finally parked the car as directed by an attendant, next to a long line of other vehicles on the scrubby grass of a vast field.

  The layout of the Bedlingham dog show resembled many of the county fairs that Molly and Nell had attended over the years. A series of colorful tents surrounded a large central lawn on which several different events were taking place simultaneously.

  The people, however, bore little resemblance to the farmers and 4-H Club kids that Molly was used to seeing at big outdoor events in America. Here they dressed in silk and tweeds and spoke primarily in the clipped accents of the upper class, though Molly could also make out an occasional hard-boiled Cockney and soft Scottish burr. The men sported ties and carried walking sticks; the women wore expensive jewelry and sensible shoes. If the rain yesterday had inconvenienced anyone, it didn’t show.

  Molly had had no idea that a dog show would be so dressy. Both she and Nell had put on shorts that morning, and Nell had put on a tank top that did little to conceal her figure. The man who took their entrance fee at the gate gave them a curious stare. When Molly explained they were Americans, however, he ah-ed and nodded sympathetically.

  The grounds were packed with tents of different colors. Under each one were benches on which dogs in various states of patience were being groomed by owners in various states of excitement. Each tent was devoted to a different breed. Scores of poodles yapped in one, dozens of bloodhounds snoozed in another.

  As they walked from tent to tent, Nell, wide-eyed with happiness, accepted licks and nuzzles from dalmatians and Yorkies, collies and Airedales, as well as numerous breeds the identity of which Molly didn’t have a clue.

  After ten minutes or so they finally came to the Chinese pug tent, which was what Molly had been looking for. A congregation of the little buff-colored, goggle-eyed creatures with smashed-in faces greeted them with a warm chorus of barks and wheezes.

  “Cease that defeatist attitude instantaneously, Tinkerbell,” ordered a stern-faced man to a panting pug who was drooling on his shoe. “To be a champion, one must think like a champion.”

  Other inspirational talk that Molly could overhear ranged from, “Do keep the upper lip a bit more stiffened, Lester, old bean,” to “Izzy, Izzy, goo goo, yes.”

  “I’m looking for Richard Julian,” said Molly to one of the more approachable-looking dog owners, a mild-mannered lady wearing a comfortable old sweater rather than the more fashionable togs that most of the others sported.

  “Don’t know where he is,” she said, beaming at the pug in her arms as if it were a baby. “She’s over there.”

  The woman tilted her head toward the other side of the tent. The only she in that direction was a stout, Margaret Thatcheresque figure with sculpted, hard-looking hair and a caboose like something one might find on the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe. Lady Stacey Farfel-Julian wore a peach-colored suit, heavy gold drops on her droopy earlobes, and a noblesse oblige smile. She didn’t look like the type who played much peekaboo with her bosoms anymore.

  Molly approached cautiously.

  “Lady Julian?” said Molly, hoping it was the right way to address her.

  “Yazzz?” said the woman, looking down her long nose with narrowing gray eyes.

  “I’m Molly O’Hara, and this is my sister Nell. We’re looking for your husband.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re his granddaughters. From America.”

  “How veddy creative,” sniffed Lady Farfel-Julian, her eyes slowing shifting from Molly to Nell and back again.

  “Mr. Julian and our grandmother weren’t married for very long,” stammered Molly beneath her withering gaze. “It was many years ago. When his name was Jellinek. He doesn’t even know we’re alive probably.”

  “Oh, you needn’t embellish, my dear. Your story is already quite amusing enough. Isn’t it, Mr. Moto?”

  The pug at her feet, a tawny creature with eyes that sparkled like diamonds, looked up inquiringly at the sound of its name.

  “Well, don’t just sit there, Mr. Moto,” Lady Julian commanded. “Say hello to these very amusing young gels. What did you say your names were?”

  “Molly and Nell O’Hara.”

  “And of course they are Irish, as well. Yes. Very amusing, indeed.”

  “I don’t think you understand …” began Molly.

  “Oh, but we understand perfectly, my dear. Don’t we, Mr. Moto?”

  Mr. Moto broke into an aria of denunciatory yaps. Lady Farfel-Julian picked up her dog and stroked its gnarled brow.

  “So veddy pleased to have met you,” she declared imperiously, shooting daggers from narrowed eyes. “I meet so very few of Richard’s little … relatives … these days.”

  Then she turned smartly on her heel and marched off to the other side of the tent.

  Molly stood quivering in a daze of confusion and indignation. Nell petted a more amiable pug and smiled like she was having the best time in the world. Out of the corner of her eye Molly detected movement. When she turned she saw a small man in a tweed suit blinking at her like some kind of elderly traffic light gone mad.

  “’E’s over at the refreshment tent, luv,” said the man in a loud whisper, having gotten her attention.

  “Who is?”

  “Richard. And I say every man is entitled to ’ave as many granddaughters as ’e can afford, if you catch my drift.”

  Molly stood for a moment, basking in the fellow’s good-natured leer and trying to decide whether to defend the O’Hara honor with Lady Farfel-Julian. The latter was now performing a maneuver on one of Mr. Moto’s ears that resembled French-kissing. Molly decided that retreat was the more mature course of action.

  “Come on,” she said, pushing Nell off in the direction that the leering man had blinked in.

  “Can you believe that woman?” Molly said angrily as they made their way across the grass. “Who the hell does she think she is?”

  Nell waved her hand and shook her head, as if to say it wasn’t important, that it didn’t matter. Molly was still fuming, however, when they got to the refreshment tent, two aisles over.

  This tent was fully ten times the size of all the others. Beneath its shelter were rows of wooden picnic-type tables covered with red-and-white-checkered plastic tablecloths. At the back of the tent a long serving area featured sandwiches, beer, hot and cold drinks, and various varieties of bagged junk foods, the prices of which were enumerated on a large board behind the servers.

  Only a few of the tables were occupied, it being too early for lunch, bu
t a crowd was hovering by the tea and coffee urns.

  At the back of the tent a tall white-haired man in an elegantly tailored suit stood with his hand propped against a pole. Leaning with her back against the pole, under the shelter of his arm, was a smiling young woman wearing a black-and-white serving uniform that could not conceal an impressive figure. She seemed to be pleased with what the man was saying. So did he.

  The moment of truth had arrived.

  Molly didn’t understand how she knew this was Richard Julian, but she was sure it was. Unlike Bobby Prince, their grandfather still looked every bit like a leading man, a Cary Grant type full of charm and sophistication, sexy even in his golden years and fully aware of it.

  Molly stared at him, not knowing what to do. This was the man who had run off with Grandma when she was just a kid, who had acted with her on Broadway and fathered her child. This was the man who had known Tuck Wittington and had chased girls with Bobby Prince. Most important of all, this was the man who could direct her and Nell back to Grandma’s family, back to the Gales.

  Suddenly his silver head turned. As their eyes met, Molly felt something deep down inside her instantly relax. There was something in his face that seemed to say he recognized her, too, that he knew who she was and why she was here, that she was the most beautiful woman in the world and that he loved her deeply.

  Molly shyly smiled back.

  As she did so, Richard Julian’s thin lips drew together into a kiss. He winked as he blew it to her.

  Nine

  Molly stood for a moment with her mouth open, not knowing what to do. Richard Julian had already turned his attention back to the serving girl. Molly had not flown a thousand miles across the ocean to wait around until he was free. She strode through the tent and right up to him. Nell followed at her side.

  “Mr. Julian?”

  Richard Julian turned and regarded Molly, his blue eyes full of curiosity and amusement. Up close he was still handsome, but it was apparent that his face was beginning to go to seed. Slight bags under the eyes. Broken capillaries in the nose. Puffy cheeks that would soon collapse to the twin adversaries of gravity and age.