The Lost Ticket, page 11
“This is the River Thames. We took a boat along it to Greenwich.”
Before Libby knew it, they were driving down Clapham High Street. This was the first time she’d been to the southern end of the 88 route, and as the common came into view, she remembered Frank’s story.
“This is where he first saw her,” she said to Dylan as they disembarked. “Do you think she might still live round here? Maybe she’s going out on the bus today, and she’ll see one of our posters?”
Libby looked at Dylan but he wouldn’t meet her eye, and she felt suddenly stupid. Of course the woman wouldn’t still live here sixty years later. How could she be so naive?
“What do we do now?” Esme said to Libby.
“Well, we usually put up a poster at the bus stop, and then we start walking the bus route, putting up posters on lampposts and—”
Libby didn’t get to finish her sentence, as Esme had grabbed a pile of posters out of her hand and started crossing the road toward the common.
“Dylan!” she shouted, and he ran over to join her.
“We don’t usually put them up on trees, Ez,” Dylan said.
But Esme clearly had other ideas.
CHAPTER
17
PEGGY
Oh my goodness—you won’t believe the morning I’ve had!
First off, I spilled tea on my good M&S blouse and had to go and get changed. Then, just as I was about to leave to come here, the phone rang—my landline, not the mobile—and I had to answer it because you know the only person who calls me on it is David and it might be important. Remember that time the phone rang in the middle of the night, and it was David saying Emma had gone into labor and his car had broken down, and we had to dash across London at two a.m. to drive her to the hospital? I thought we were going to get arrested, the speed you drove.
Anyway, I answered the phone, but it turns out it wasn’t David; it was some woman telling me I’d recently been involved in a car accident and it wasn’t my fault. Can you imagine? So I explained to her that I hadn’t been in a car accident, and in fact I hadn’t been in a car for ages, apart from that one time Barry from number six drove me to the hospital appointment to get my varicose veins done. And then she said, “Eh,” so I felt I should explain to her what a varicose vein procedure involves in case she ever needs one. And then halfway through my explanation, she hung up on me. How rude!
Anyway, all of this meant I was late leaving the flat to catch the bus, and I knew that if I didn’t hurry, then by the time I got here I’d basically have to leave straightaway in order to get back in time for bingo. And I know what you’re going to say, Percy—I can miss bingo for one week—but Arpita has got back from visiting her grandkids in India and I don’t want to miss seeing the photos. Besides, she always brings lovely fabrics back with her, and if I’m not there today, then Betty Fincher will pinch all the best ones.
So there I was, hurrying across the common toward the bus stop, and I notice that all these yellow pieces of paper have been stuck up along the path; they’re literally on everything. Now, you know I can’t stand littering, especially on the common. Remember that afternoon we were having a picnic with David, and I saw that family leaving their rubbish behind, and I chased after them and made them clear it up? Well, I also hate it when people put posters up all over the place; it makes it so ugly. So I look around and I see a young woman in a red-and-black polka dot dress taping one of these posters up to a tree, and I turn and march over toward her, getting ready to launch off on a rant, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. And when I turn around, guess who it is.
No? Give up?
It was Eileen Attwood, from number eighteen!
I don’t mean to sound rude, but I have to tell you my heart sank. As you well know, Eileen is not someone who you can have a quick conversation with. I mean, why only use five words when you can use fifteen? That’s Eileen’s philosophy. And straightaway she launches into this story about her Jeremy, who’s been made a partner in his law firm, and how they’re going to Dubai to celebrate and they’ve invited her but she’s not sure about the long flight. And she’s telling me all this like she wants my opinion on whether she should go on the holiday, but really, I know she’s just trying to show off about her son and his fancy job. She does this all the time, like when I had my fall and she called round to check I was okay, but really all she wanted was to tell me about her new Stannah Stairlift. So I’m nodding along, trying to pretend I’m interested when really inside my blood’s boiling, and I want to tell her to take her first-class flight to Dubai and shove it up her . . .
And then the funniest thing happens. There’s a big gust of wind, completely out of nowhere, and all of a sudden one of those yellow pieces of paper detaches itself from a post and comes flying across the path at great speed and hits Eileen straight in the face. I mean, you could actually hear it thwack her; it was like something out of a cartoon. And she’s so shocked that she screams and starts pulling at her face like she’s been attacked by a giant yellow bat, and then she steps backward and puts her foot in the biggest dog poo you’ve ever seen.
Now, I don’t need to tell you my feelings on selfish owners not clearing up after their dogs, love. I know you feel exactly the same. But on this one occasion, I have to confess that I was secretly quite grateful for the inconsiderate bugger and this woman with her messy posters, because you should have seen Eileen’s face. She went bright purple, and she starts howling about her new shoes and how she’s on her way to have lunch with her Jeremy and she can’t turn up smelling like this. And all the time she’s using the yellow poster to clean the poo off her shoe, and I’m standing there, trying my hardest not to laugh. Thankfully, I saw an 88 bus coming, so I told Eileen I had to dash, and I left her cursing to herself as she hopped around, cleaning her shoe.
What a sight it was, love! Oh, you’d have laughed if you’d been there.
CHAPTER
18
After an hour, Libby, Dylan, and Esme had barely made it thirty meters from the first bus stop, and every tree, lamppost, and railing had a yellow poster attached to it.
“I love how thorough Esme is, but we’re going to run out soon if we’re not careful,” Libby whispered to Dylan as she watched the young woman tape one to a bike.
“Well, her approach is certainly getting us more attention than usual.” Dylan indicated behind them, and Libby turned round to see several people stopping to read the sea of yellow paper.
“Can we go to the park?” Esme said, once she’d exhausted their pile of posters.
“Sure thing,” Dylan said.
The three of them walked up to the playground, where Esme jumped on a swing and started to propel herself backward and forward. Dylan and Libby sat down on a bench opposite.
“Esme is great fun,” Libby said as they watched the young woman fly higher and higher on the swing. “How did you two meet?”
“A couple of years back, her mum had a nasty fall and broke her hip, so the two of them needed some extra help at home for a couple of months. Ez and I have been mates ever since; we must have been to every tourist attraction and karaoke bar in London.”
“And she’s getting married soon?”
“Yeah, in November. Then she and Johnny are moving into an assisted-living flat together. I’m not sure she’ll have much time for me after that; she’s got the busiest social life of anyone I know.”
Dylan gave a soft laugh as he said this. Libby watched him watching Esme on the swing, and remembered how gentle he’d been with Frank on Saturday. It was strange to think that little more than a week ago, she’d been so horrified when Frank had told her that Dylan was his carer.
“Did you always want to be a carer?”
“Nah, I wanted to be a musician. I’ve played in bands since I was a kid, still do a bit now. But sadly, music isn’t going to put food on the table.”
“So how did you get into caring?”
“I sort of fell into it. I dropped out of school at sixteen; me and the British education system were not a good match. I pissed around for a bit, playing in bands and getting into scrapes. And then about fifteen years ago, I took a temp job at a care agency. And the rest, as they say, is history.”
“Well, you’re clearly brilliant at it.”
“I dunno about that. But I enjoy it and the hours suit me: I work a lot of night shifts, which I like, as it gives me free time in the day. I’d rather die than do some soul-sucking corporate nine-to-five.”
“Have you ever thought about changing careers?”
Dylan paused for a moment, knocking an empty Coke can back and forth between his feet. “A few years ago I did have this crazy idea about going into nursing; I sometimes work with learning-disability nurses and they’re amazing. But I looked into it, and you need A levels and a degree and loads of other stuff, so it’s stupid to even say it.” He gave the can a kick, sending it skidding out of the playground.
“I don’t think it’s stupid.”
“I think your thirties are a bit late to be going back to school, aren’t they? I’d look like a right twat, sitting there with a load of spotty teenagers.”
“It’s not too late, if it’s what you really want.” As she said it, Libby thought about her own teenage ambitions. She was hardly one to talk about following your dreams.
“What about you?” Dylan said. “Did you always want to work in the gardening industry?”
“God no. It was my boyfriend . . . ex-boyfriend’s business, and I started working there because he needed another pair of hands.” This was the first time she’d mentioned Simon to Dylan, although he was clearly aware of his existence, thanks to Hector.
“What did you dream of doing when you were younger?”
Libby bit her lip. Would he laugh if she told him the truth, given he’d seen her terrible attempt at drawing?
“I wanted to be an artist.”
Dylan didn’t laugh. Instead he looked at her, his eyes serious. “So what happened?”
“My parents refused to let me go to art school.”
“Whoa. Like Frank’s woman on the 88?”
“I know. Weird, right?”
“Why didn’t they want you to go?”
“They said I’d end up spending three years smoking weed and have no job at the end of it. My parents are very goals oriented.”
“And you didn’t consider disobeying them?”
Libby shook her head. “I’m not as brave as Frank’s girl. Besides, there was no way I could have paid the fees without their support.”
“That really sucks. I’m sorry.”
This was the second time someone had been kind to Libby in forty-eight hours, and she did not want to burst into tears again. “I probably wouldn’t have got into art school anyway; I wasn’t very good.”
“You looked pretty talented, from what I saw.”
“What, at drawing penis hair?”
Dylan laughed, an enchanting sound that made Libby smile.
“Your sketch was really good, though,” he said. “The way you’d drawn my eyes, it’s like you’d captured exactly what I was thinking.”
“Was it ‘I wish this stupid woman would stop drawing me’?”
“Nah. I was angry with my dad, and you’d caught that somehow. That’s not something everyone can do when they draw; it’s a talent.”
“You’re just being kind,” Libby said, staring down at her flip-flops.
“No, I’m being serious, Libby.”
The way he said her name sent a small shiver across Libby’s skin.
“So, Hector said you did medicine at uni?” Dylan said.
“Yeah. My dad’s a doctor and he always wanted one of his kids to follow him into the profession. My sister set her sights on law at a young age—she likes an argument—so it was medicine for me, whether I liked it or not. Unfortunately for everyone, I absolutely hated it and dropped out.”
“That must have been full-on for you.”
“It was. And my family are apparently still flipping out about it ten years later.” And about my broken relationship and failed life, Libby thought with a shudder.
“You know, this is none of my business, but I think you need to stop caring so much what your family think,” Dylan said.
Libby turned to him. “What do you mean?”
“Well, several times now you’ve mentioned them being disappointed in you. But you’re a grown woman; why do you give a shit?”
“That’s easy for you to say, Mr. Anarchist Punk.”
“I’m not an anarchist. But I don’t care what other people think about my life choices, and definitely not what my dad thinks.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t care so much if they weren’t right,” Libby said with a sigh. “I mean, I haven’t exactly made a success of my life, have I? I dropped out of uni and fell in love with a man who’s got bored of me, and I’m currently unemployed and soon to be homeless. This is hardly the life I planned for myself.”
“Who says your life isn’t a success? All that ‘get a proper job, settle down, have two-point-four kids’ stuff is bollocks anyway. The second I worked out I didn’t want any of that, my life became so much easier.”
“Lucky you.” Libby knew she sounded bitter, but Dylan clearly didn’t live in the real world.
“I know things must feel a bit crappy for you right now. But maybe it will all turn out for the best in the long run? Maybe you’ll end up going to art school, after all, and becoming a world-famous artist who draws people with cocks on their heads.”
Libby laughed out loud at this and elbowed Dylan in the ribs.
“Ouch,” he said, but when she looked at him, he was laughing too. For a moment they held each other’s gaze.
“What’s so funny?” Esme said, coming over to join them.
“Nothing.” Dylan stood up and rubbed his side. “Shall we get you home, miss?”
Esme took Libby’s hand and the three of them began to make their way back toward the bus stop through the sea of yellow posters.
“You really did a great job with these,” Libby said to Esme as she saw how many people were stopping to look at them.
“You have to get people’s attention,” Esme said. “If it’s just one or two, people will ignore them.”
They waited a few minutes for an 88 to arrive. This time, Esme didn’t push Libby out of the way as they boarded, and instead made a great show of directing her to the seat next to Dylan. Esme sat down in the row in front of them, next to a lady reading a newspaper.
“Is that ‘Rush Hour Crush’?” Esme said to the lady as the bus pulled off. “Can I read it too?”
The woman gave a disgruntled sniff but moved the paper a fraction so Esme could see it.
“What’s ‘Rush Hour Crush’?” Libby asked.
“It’s where people try and find someone they saw on the bus or tube, because they fancy them. It’s mine and Dylan’s favorite bit.”
“It is not,” Dylan said with an embarrassed cough.
“I’ve never heard of it; can I see too?” Libby said, leaning forward.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, you two have it,” the lady snapped, thrusting the paper toward Esme.
“Thank you,” Esme said brightly, then held it up for Libby to read.
To the dark-haired guy with the red backpack on the Central line this morning. We caught each other’s eye at Bond Street, but I was too embarrassed to say hello. Fancy a drink sometime?
Blond Girl with Green Satchel
“I wonder if any of these people actually find the person they’re looking for,” Libby said.
“That’s it!” Esme shouted, startling Libby. “We should do one of these for Frank.”
“Erm, that’s a nice idea, Ez, but I think it’s mainly for horny young people looking for a shag,” Dylan said.
But Libby was sitting up in her seat. “No, Esme’s right. How many thousands of commuters must read these each day? Like she said earlier, we need to catch people’s attention.”
“Exactly,” Esme said, giving Dylan a satisfied smile.
For the rest of the bus journey home, Libby and Esme worked on the wording, and by the time they got back to Camden, Libby had e-mailed the newspaper their entry.
To the #girlonthe88bus. In April 1962 we met on the top deck of the 88 and talked from Clapham Common to Oxford Circus, and you changed my life. I have been looking for you ever since.
Young man reading On the Road
CHAPTER
19
Peanut butter or Marmite?”
“Peanut butter, of course. Countryside or city?”
“City, every time. The Simpsons or South Park?”
“Erm . . . neither.”
“What!” Dylan looked at Libby in mock horror. “How can you not like The Simpsons?”
“I don’t know. I’ve just never really watched it.”
“Seriously? Well, we have to remedy that. One day I’m gonna make you sit down and watch a Simpsons marathon with me.”
Libby looked out of the bus window to hide her delight. They were at the end of their third week of putting up posters, and she found herself looking forward to each outing with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. It felt wonderful to have a purpose, a project she cared about; Libby couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so motivated. Her job working for Simon had never made her feel like this, she realized. It had been Simon’s business, his dream, and whilst Libby had done everything she could to support him, it had never excited her in the way this project did.
Although it wasn’t just helping Frank that made her feel like this, Libby was well aware. She glanced at Dylan, who was using two rolled-up posters as pretend drumsticks as he beat out a fast-paced rhythm on his knees. When she was with Dylan, Libby felt like a different version of herself. Funnier. Calmer. More spontaneous. She couldn’t remember ever having laughed as much as she had done with him these past three weeks, or felt so at ease. And yet they were rapidly approaching the southern end of the 88 bus route. They had only the final section from Stockwell down to Clapham High Street and then they would have put up posters along the whole route, and their project would be complete. What would happen to this new version of Libby then? Would she still exist without this purpose? Without Dylan?
