The Lost Ticket, page 17
So now the baby’s crying and the pram is still sticking out into the aisle, blocking everyone’s way, and then from the top seat, the toddler pipes up.
“Mummy, I’m hungry.”
This kid must have been at least three years old and far too big to still be in a pushchair, in my opinion. And he’s got one of those really annoying whingy voices.
“In a minute, darling,” the woman says, sounding like the Duchess of bleedin’ Cambridge.
“But I need a snack noooow,” the kid shouts, and he starts swinging his legs backward and forward so he’s kicking the end of the baby’s bassinet, which makes the little one scream louder.
Well, what that child needed was a smack, not a snack. But of course she doesn’t tell him off; instead she bends down and lifts the baby out of the pram.
I have to tell you, love, when I saw the little one, my heart stopped.
She was absolutely tiny; looked like she couldn’t have been more than a few days old. And the woman is balancing the baby in one arm while she’s bending down to rummage under the pram to find something, and the boy is still chanting, “Snack! Snack! Snack!” and the baby is howling her head off and the woman’s scrabbling around, looking like she’s about to explode.
So do you know what I did?
I leant forward and I held out my arms, and I said to her, “Give the baby to me.”
Well, she turns and looks at me then, and I could see her doing the mental calculation of whether I looked like a serial killer or not. And then she handed this baby over to me.
Honestly, love, the thing was so small, I could barely feel her in my arms. And do you know what it made me think of?
Jack.
After all these years, it made me think of Jack.
I remembered holding him in the hospital when he was so tiny, he could almost fit in the palm of my hand.
Do you remember the hat I’d knitted for him, which was so big it covered his whole upper body?
This baby was larger than Jack, of course; otherwise they’d never have let her out of hospital. But still, holding her I felt like I was back there with you and him in the hospital that day he was born.
Finally, the woman finds a packet of crisps and she hands them to the boy, who stops shouting and starts shoveling them into his mouth, the greedy little brat. And this woman collapses down onto the seat next to me, and I think she’s going to ask for her baby back, but she doesn’t. She lets out this long sigh and closes her eyes and just sits there, not moving.
And as I’m watching her, do you know what I see?
Tears.
And I remembered you, on the bus back from the hospital, sitting next to me crying. It was such a shock to see, love. I was always the crier, but there you were, not making a sound, your shoulders shaking with the sobs. And I didn’t know what to do; I was in so much pain myself that I didn’t know whether to comfort you or pretend I hadn’t seen. So I just sat there, staring out the bus window at gray London, and by the time I turned back, you’d stopped.
I’m not sure I ever saw you cry again, after that. It was like there were no tears left.
CHAPTER
30
The following Tuesday, Libby sat outside the Parliament Hill café, waiting for Frank to arrive. It had been a week since their trip on the bus to meet Ingrid Stokes, and Libby had been worrying about him nonstop. Dylan had been texting her updates and said that Frank was okay but subdued and avoiding talking about what happened on the bus. What was more, he’d apparently stopped going out on the 88, giving tenuous excuses each time as to why he couldn’t go. Frank himself had ignored all of Libby’s messages suggesting they meet up, until yesterday, when he’d finally replied and agreed to join her for a walk.
Libby saw him heading slowly up the path toward her, dressed in his usual velvet jacket, and she hurried over to meet him.
“Hi, Frank.”
“Hello, Libby.” He smiled at her, but Libby couldn’t help noticing he’d lost some of the sparkle in his eyes.
“It’s so lovely to see you again,” Libby said. “Shall we head up Parliament Hill as usual? I’ve brought my sketchbook with me.”
“Can we walk along to the ponds instead? I’m not sure I’m up to the climb today.”
“Of course.”
This was the first time Libby had ever heard Frank admit defeat, and she felt a knot of anxiety. Dylan had warned her this might happen, that the disappointment if they didn’t find Frank’s woman might be too much for him. But Libby had insisted on pushing on with her search anyway, determined that she knew better. What had she done?
They turned and began to make their way along the path toward the ponds.
“How have you been?” Libby said as they passed the infants’ playground, the sound of children’s laughter floating over to them. “Dylan tells me you’ve not been on the 88 this week.”
“No, I’ve not really felt like it.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’ve been a little under the weather. I think I may have a head cold. I’ve been enjoying catching up on some nature documentaries.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. I really do enjoy TV; I should watch it more.”
“And how have you been feeling about what happened last week?”
“Last week?”
“Yes, your meeting with Mrs. Stokes.”
Frank hesitated for a fraction of a second, and when he spoke again, it was in a too-jovial voice. “She was a nice lady, wasn’t she? Very friendly.”
“She did seem lovely,” Libby said carefully. “What did the two of you chat about?”
“Oh, this and that: the weather, her grandchildren, how expensive London is these days. The usual conversation of two lonely pensioners on the bus.”
Libby was unused to hearing Frank talk like this, and she stopped in the middle of the path. “I’m so sorry it wasn’t her, Frank. I feel terrible.”
“Why? It’s not your fault that it wasn’t her.”
“I know, but I was the one who suggested the whole search, who got your hopes up. If it wasn’t for me, you would never have been disappointed like this.”
Frank shook his head. “It had to happen sooner or later. I’ve been living in a dreamland and it’s time I woke up to the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That I’m never going to find her.”
“Oh, Frank, that’s not—”
He held his hand up to stop her. “I know that sounds very dramatic of me, Libby, but it’s quite all right; you don’t need to try and make me feel better. I know that she probably left London decades ago or that she’s passed away.”
“That’s not true. Just because this woman wasn’t her doesn’t mean she isn’t out there somewhere.”
Frank turned and walked over to a bench on the side of the path, then sat down heavily.
“Even if she is still alive, the chances of me finding her are minuscule, aren’t they?” he said as Libby sat down next to him. “I’ve been holding on to this fantasy of some grand reunion on the bus, but it’s silly, really. I can see that now.”
“I believed we could find her too; otherwise I’d never have offered to help.”
“You were being kind.”
“No, I wanted to find her. Her story . . .”
Libby paused. Why had she been so keen to find this woman, investing so much of her time and energy in the search? Yes, she’d wanted to find her for Frank, but it wasn’t only that.
“Your girl on the bus did the thing I’ve always regretted not doing. She defied her parents and went to art school, while I let my parents talk me out of it. So I think I wanted to know if she made the right decision. Were her sacrifices worth it? Was she happy?”
Frank was watching Libby as she spoke. “Please don’t think I’m not grateful for your help, Libby, but it’s time we stopped. You and I have both been hiding behind this search, and we need to face up to our own lives.”
“What do you mean?”
He raised his chin. “I spoke to Clara on Friday. I’m going to have the care assessment and move into a home.”
“What?” Libby tried to hide the horror in her voice. “But why?”
“It’s what Clara wants. And after all the worry I’ve caused her over the years, it feels like the least I can do now.”
“But, Frank, you said yourself, if you move into a care home, you won’t be able to go out on the bus anymore.”
“Haven’t you been listening, Libby? My days on the 88 are over.”
“But what about your walks up Parliament Hill? Do you really want to give up that freedom before you have to?”
He shook his head. “I have dementia, dear. Sooner or later, I won’t be able to do any of those things anyway. So I might as well give up now, with my dignity intact.”
“Oh, Frank—” Libby started, but he put his hand up to stop her.
“Please don’t feel sorry for me. I’ve made peace with my decision. I have the care assessment in three weeks’ time, and I’ll tell the social worker that I can’t cope in the house anymore and I want to move to a home. It’s all for the best.”
“And Dylan?”
Frank shrugged. “We’ll still be friends, I’m sure.”
Libby slumped back on the bench. She couldn’t believe this was really it, the end of the search.
“You need to get on with living your life as well,” Frank said gently. “I know this has given you a much-needed project these past few months, but it’s time you moved on too. You’re young, single, and carefree; you shouldn’t be spending your days riding the bus for an old fogy like me.”
“Frank, I’m not young and carefree. I’m turning thirty in a few weeks, I’m pregnant, and my ex-boyfriend wants nothing to do with me or the baby.”
Frank’s eyes went wide. “You’re pregnant?”
“Yep.” She pulled her loose dress against her body to show him the bump, which seemed to be getting bigger by the day.
“My goodness, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I only found out a few weeks ago at the hospital, and I was in shock to begin with. And then Nasima got in touch, and I didn’t want to tell you right before you met Mrs. Stokes.”
“But this is wonderful news, Libby. You’ll make a fantastic mother.”
“Thank you.”
“And your birthday so soon as well? What are you doing to celebrate?”
“I hadn’t really planned anything. My sister’s family are going on holiday and my parents are staying with them that week, so I’ll probably have a quiet night in front of the TV.”
“Why don’t you go away with them?”
“They did invite me, but honestly, the thought of being in close quarters with my sister and mum is more than I can handle,” Libby said, wincing. “I’m not the flavor of the month with either of them right now.”
“Well, you can’t spend your thirtieth birthday on your own. You have to celebrate it with friends.”
“Thank you, but I’m not really in the mood for a party.”
“Neither am I, but it will do us both good. We can combine your birthday with a last hurrah for me before my assessment.”
Libby frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. We’ll invite Dylan, of course, and Esme too. Are we okay to hold it at yours? My place is far too cluttered but I’ll bring champagne and we could . . .”
Libby watched Frank as he began listing suggestions. She’d never loved birthdays, and in recent years she and Simon had barely celebrated them. But Frank was right: they all needed something positive and fun in their lives right now, especially Frank. She reached into her bag, pulled out her sketchbook, and started to write a list.
CHAPTER
31
By eight p.m. on her birthday evening, Libby was dressed and busy in the kitchen. She’d bought a leg of lamb, at great expense, which was now roasting in the oven along with vegetables for a salad, and she was putting the final touches to a salsa verde. It was a pleasure to be making a proper meal again; Libby had always loved cooking, but Simon had tended to do all the “special” meals, leaving her with the dull weeknight suppers. Now she reveled in using every utensil and pan in the kitchen. Rebecca would have had a fit if she were here.
The doorbell rang, and Libby glanced in the hallway mirror as she went to answer it. She’d overcome her nerves and this morning had been to a local hairdresser, who had given her a stylish trim and blow-dry, so her usually chaotic curls now hung in sleek ringlets. Libby dabbed on a quick slick of lipstick, then opened the front door.
“Happy birthday!” Frank, Esme, and Dylan were standing on the top step, all grinning at her.
Frank, who was wearing his powder blue suit for the occasion, stepped forward first and gave Libby a bottle of champagne, a box of chocolates, and a kiss on the cheek. Behind him, Esme was wearing a floral jumpsuit, and she gave Libby a huge hug. Dylan was the last to come in. He was wearing his leather jacket but with a black collared shirt underneath, and he gave a small cough as he greeted Libby.
“Happy birthday,” he said. “You look lovely.”
Libby felt herself flush as she mumbled thanks and led them through to the garden.
“Isn’t this wonderful?” Frank said as they stepped outside. “Did you do all of this?”
Libby nodded. It was only a tiny garden but she’d spent most of the morning getting it ready. She’d cleared Hector’s toys off the patio and cleaned the table, decorating it with small vases of cut flowers. She’d dug Rebecca’s Christmas fairy lights out of the attic and suspended them along the back wall, and she’d also found two dozen tea lights, which she’d put in jam jars and glasses dotted round the garden. Now that the sun was starting to set, the whole space looked magical.
Dylan opened the bottle of champagne Frank had brought and soon the conversation was flowing. After one glass, Frank started regaling them with funny stories from his acting days, causing them all to cry with laughter. Libby served her roast lamb and warm vegetable salad, which everyone declared was a triumph, and while they ate, Esme excitedly shared with them the plans for her wedding in November. Libby listened, adding suggestions and ideas, but the whole time all she could think about was Dylan sitting across the table from her. A couple of times she glanced up and caught him watching her, but he always looked away. Still, Libby felt as if she had a swarm of butterflies circling inside her stomach, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t the baby wriggling.
When they’d finished eating, Frank cleared his throat.
“There’s something I want to tell you all,” he said, and waited for them to quieten. “First off, I wanted to apologize to Dylan. I know that I’ve been a bit down in the dumps lately, and I’m sorry if I’ve been grumpy with you.”
“You can say that again,” Dylan said, raising an eyebrow.
“That whole thing with that Ingrid woman completely threw me. I was so sure she was going to be my woman on the bus, and when she wasn’t . . . well, I felt humiliated, like a silly old fool.” Frank turned to Libby. “When we met for our walk, I’d just come off the phone from Clara. She’d been nagging at me about the care assessment, and I didn’t have the energy to fight her anymore. I wanted to quit.”
He picked up his glass, his hand shaking, and they all waited while he took a sip.
“But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this, and I’ve realized I was wrong. So I called Clara yesterday and told her I won’t go into the care home. I know that time will come eventually, but I’m not ready to give up on my independence just yet.”
“And what did she say?” Libby asked.
“She wasn’t delighted, as you can imagine. And she says I still have to have my care assessment on Tuesday, as it’s booked and she can’t cancel it. But Dylan’s going to be there for the assessment, and together we’ll show the social worker that I’m still perfectly capable of living at home and looking after myself. If I can prove that, then no one can make me move into a care home if I don’t want to.”
“And what about your hunt for the lady?” Esme said.
Frank smiled. “I took a trip out on the 88 today.”
“You and that bloody bus,” Dylan said, but he was smiling too.
“I know what you think, Dylan. But I promise you, I’m being more realistic now. I know that I’ll probably never find her, and that’s okay. I want to keep on looking while I still can.”
“Well, I think it’s wonderful.” Libby raised her glass. “To Frank and his independence!”
They all raised their glasses and chinked.
“Is there birthday cake now?” Esme said.
“Of course!” Libby started clearing the plates.
“Let me help.” Dylan stood up and picked up some dishes, following Libby into the kitchen. “That meal was amazing.”
“Thanks. It’s been a while since I cooked for pleasure and I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed it. Frank seems well?”
“Yeah, this has done him a world of good. Turns out he just needed an audience again.”
Libby laughed as she started to load plates into the dishwasher. Dylan came to stand next to her.
“Bloody hell, did you make this too?” he said, pointing at the chocolate cake on the counter. Libby had baked it yesterday, decorating the surface with shards of dark, milk, and white chocolate. “It looks incredible.”
“I hope it tastes all right. Can you pass that?”
She indicated the bowl next to Dylan, and he picked it up and handed it to her. As he did, his hand brushed against hers, and Libby felt a familiar jolt of electricity through her arm. Beside her, she heard Dylan draw breath. Libby put the bowl in the dishwasher, her skin still tingling.
