The Lost Ticket, page 23
It was only a ten-minute bus ride to the library, where she and Simon were attending an NCT course today. It had been his suggestion that they go, as a way for Libby to make “mum friends,” as Simon had put it. And it was true that she hadn’t done much socializing since she’d moved back to Surrey; with everything she needed to do to get ready for the baby’s arrival, she’d not had much spare time.
As Libby approached the library, she heard her phone ringing.
“Si, I’m just arriving,” she said as she answered.
“Libs, I’m so sorry but I’m not there yet. I’m still at the rugby club. The bloody car has broken down in the car park and I’ve got to wait for the RAC to come.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“I don’t know; the engine won’t start. I’m so sorry; will you be okay going on your own?”
Libby stifled a sigh. “Sure, I’ll be fine.”
She hung up and headed into the library, where a librarian pointed her toward a meeting room at the back. When she got to the door, Libby glanced in. There were five couples, all sitting in chairs arranged in a semicircle, facing a middle-aged woman wearing a cheesecloth top and floral boots. The woman was holding a plastic model baby and what looked like a knitted breast. There were two empty chairs in the semicircle.
“Ah, you must be Libby,” the cheesecloth woman said when she spotted her. “Come on in. We’ve left spaces for you and Simon.”
Libby faltered at the door.
“Don’t be shy; we won’t bite.”
The five couples were all staring at her, and Libby could see some of them looking behind her for her partner. Did she really want to go through this today, discussing placentas and cracked nipples with a bunch of strangers all pitying her for being there alone? Surely, there were better things she could be doing with her time.
“I’m sorry; something’s come up,” Libby said, and she turned and fled.
As she walked away from the library, Libby congratulated herself on her decision. Now she could go to Sainsbury’s to do some food shopping, and then she could spend the afternoon washing, labeling, and putting away the baby clothes that her sister had given her. Rebecca had recently discovered she was having a girl and had immediately announced that all the clothes she’d used for Hector were no longer suitable. Libby had happily agreed to take Hector’s old baby clothes and had been surprised when her sister had volunteered to drive down and drop them off last weekend. They still weren’t exactly close, but Rebecca had been uncharacteristically supportive over the past few months. Libby had also reached a tentative peace with her parents, who were delighted she was back in Surrey and were clearly making an effort to support her rather than control her. Although, true to form, her mum hadn’t been able to stop herself from making the odd critical remark about Libby’s choice of pram, cot, and even nappy brand.
As Libby was walking past the train station, she heard an announcement drift over the wall.
“The next train is the ten thirteen service to London Waterloo.”
Libby paused. If she hurried, she might have time to buy a ticket and catch the train to London, her last chance for a day in the city before the baby was born. Or she could stick to the plan, go to Sainsbury’s, and prepare for the baby’s arrival.
An hour later, Libby emerged into the bustle of Vauxhall Bus Station. It was almost six months to the day since she’d last been here, carrying two hastily packed rucksacks, her life in tatters. Libby could remember getting lost trying to find the right stop for the 88, and then being tutted at by passengers as she struggled to pay for her bus journey. Now she strode toward stop E, boarded the waiting bus, and paid with a touch of her card.
Libby moved instinctively toward the stairs to the upper deck, then stopped. That was where she and Frank had always sat together, but she hadn’t heard from him since the horrible day of their fight, back in July. She’d initially given him space like he’d wanted and because she’d been so busy with everything going on in her own life. When she’d finally plucked up the courage to call him, about a month later, his phone had rung and rung and eventually cut off. Libby had tried calling several times since, but the same thing always happened, and she’d come to the reluctant conclusion that Frank didn’t want to hear from her. With a small sigh, Libby moved away from the stairs. The lower deck was busy, and despite her heavily pregnant state, no one offered her a seat as she moved down the aisle.
The bus pulled off and Libby looked out the window, taking in the view as they drove up toward Vauxhall Bridge. She remembered how strange and overwhelming this had felt when she first arrived in London, an unfamiliar city with its traffic and tourists and constant buzz of movement. Now she realized how much she’d grown used to it over her short stay in the city and how much she’d missed it since moving back to Surrey.
“Oi, are you blind?”
A loud voice to Libby’s left caused her to look round. An elderly lady wearing a transparent plastic rain hood was glaring at the teenage boy in the seat next to her.
“Can’t you see that girl’s pregnant? Or were you pretending you hadn’t noticed so you wouldn’t have to give up your seat?”
The teenager looked between the old woman and Libby in confusion.
“It’s fine. I’m quite happy standing,” Libby said.
“That’s not the point,” the woman barked. “In my day, young men were taught to give up their seats for women, especially those in your condition. Come on, lad, move it.”
She gave the boy a sharp jab in the ribs with her elbow. For a moment Libby thought he was going to shout at the old woman, but she was giving him such a steely look that he obviously thought better of it, and with a grunt he stood up and slouched away.
“Well, come on, then, sit down.”
Libby really had been happy to stand, but there was no way she could disobey this formidable woman, so she lowered herself into the vacant seat next to her.
“That’s quite a bump you got there. You expecting triplets?” the woman said, nodding at Libby’s tummy.
“Just the one.”
“Blimey. When you due?”
“Tenth December.”
“Good luck with that. It’s going to be a whopper by then.”
Libby was used to this by now, complete strangers approaching her to talk about her pregnancy. A few weeks ago, she’d been in Boots when a stranger had walked up to her, put both hands on her stomach without asking permission, and pronounced it was going to be a boy.
“This your first?” the woman on the bus asked, and when Libby nodded, she sucked her teeth. “I remember when my son was born. The labor took three days and the doctors said it nearly killed me.”
“Wow, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I was fine, love. I’m as tough as old boots. And you should be all right too, with those big hips of yours.”
Libby wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult, so she nodded and then turned the other way to look out of the opposite window. The bus was on John Islip Street, making its way up toward Chelsea College of Art and Design. She remembered putting up posters around here with Dylan; it had been a wet day and they’d gone to a café for a cup of coffee while they waited for the rain to pass. She’d not heard from Dylan since that day she’d visited him in the hospital, and the memory of him made her chest ache. Libby suddenly wished she’d taken the underground today, rather than the bus with all its painful memories.
She felt a sharp tap on her arm and turned back to the woman sitting next to her.
“The thing I always say to people is: realize you’re not in control.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You youngsters these days are so used to planning and controlling everything, and you approach giving birth in the same way, with your books and birth plans and all that malarkey. It’s nonsense.”
“I do like to plan things,” Libby said with a small smile.
“Well, you can forget all that right now. A baby’s gonna come the way a baby wants to come, and there’s not much you can do besides lie back and let Mother Nature do her work.”
Libby looked at the woman. “Do you know what? I was meant to be at an NCT course today, but I think you’ve summed up in one minute everything I need to know about having a baby.”
Her companion chuckled. “Well, I’m no NCT expert, whatever the hell that is. But anything you want to know about birth and babies, you just ask.”
“All right, then.” Libby thought for a moment. “Is the pain really as bad as people say?”
“Worse. That’s why you’ve got to take all the drugs they offer you. Next?”
“How did you cope with all the sleepless nights? I’m really bad when I’m tired. I can’t function properly.”
“You got to sleep when the baby sleeps. But having a baby also gives you all these strange hormones, which means you can survive on hardly any sleep. Next?”
“How do you know when labor’s starting? I keep getting these little twinges every now and then, Braxton-Hicks contractions, they call them, but how do you know when it’s the real thing?”
The woman gave a wry laugh. “Oh, you’ll know all right, love. A woman has a sense when the baby’s about to arrive; it’s instinctive. When your time comes, you’ll know it’s for real.”
“Thank you. That’s been genuinely helpful.”
“You’re welcome.”
They rode on, and Libby watched the familiar sights of the 88 bus route fly past the window. The Home Office, where Dylan had gone off on a rant about the British government and Libby had got the giggles. Parliament Square, where they’d been accosted by tourists wanting to take Dylan’s photo. Horse Guards, where Libby had stopped for ages to watch the soldiers on their beautiful horses. It was hard to believe that had been only a few months ago; it felt like another lifetime.
As the bus approached Trafalgar Square, Libby leaned down to try to pick her bag up from the floor, but she couldn’t reach past her bump.
“Here, let me,” the woman next to her said.
“Thank you.”
“You getting off here?”
“Yes, I’m going to the National Gallery.”
“Oh, you like that place, do you?”
“I’ve only been once. I thought I might visit today, though, my last chance for a while.”
“I’ve not been for years,” the woman said. “I used to go all the time before I had my son. I could spend days wandering round.”
“You sound like a friend of mine,” Libby said as she reached forward to ring the bell.
“There was this painting I used to love. I can’t remember its name now. That’s a sure sign I’m getting old, isn’t it?”
“Trafalgar Square,” the bus announcement declared, and passengers began to move toward the doors.
“Well, thanks for all the baby advice,” Libby said, standing up.
“Good luck with it all, love. And remember, you can’t control your birth, so don’t even try.”
“I won’t! Bye.”
Libby joined the passengers waiting to disembark. There was a woman with bags of shopping up ahead struggling to carry them all off the bus, and a queue was building up around her.
“Bacchus and Ariadne,” Libby heard muttered behind her. “How could I forget that?”
The shopper finally managed to get off, and Libby was caught up in the flow of passengers toward the bus door. As she disembarked, she was hit by a blast of cold wind from Trafalgar Square, and she pulled her collar up. The lights on the pedestrian crossing had turned green, and Libby stepped out into the road. It was almost twelve thirty now, so she had plenty of time to wander round the gallery, maybe even treat herself to lunch in the café. What should she go and see first? Frank had said the Renaissance rooms were his favorite, so maybe she should start there.
Libby reached the other side of the crossing and stepped up on the pavement, then stopped as something in her brain clicked. Bacchus and Ariadne. Why was that name ringing a bell? She’d heard it before; someone had told her about the painting.
Frank had told her about the painting.
Libby spun back round. The pedestrian lights had turned red and the traffic had started to move again. At the other side of the road, she could see the 88 bus driving past, and Libby caught a flash of the old woman. She lifted her arm and waved at the bus.
“Wait!” she shouted, but her voice got lost in the hubbub of Trafalgar Square.
Libby watched the bus crawl on toward Pall Mall. The traffic was heavy and the bus was moving slowly, but Libby could hardly rush through the vehicles and bang on the window. She knew from her excursions with Dylan that the 88 would turn right onto Waterloo Place and then stop by Charles II Street. If she ran, could she get there in time? Libby looked down at her stomach, so swollen she couldn’t see her own feet. Then she looked back up at the departing bus, took a deep breath, and started to run.
CHAPTER
43
It was almost two by the time Libby arrived at Frank’s house, out of breath after her hurried walk from the bus stop. She rang the bell, praying he would answer. As she waited, she felt a sharp kick from the baby. It usually fell asleep when she was walking, but clearly Libby’s excitement was contagious, and the little one was as nervous as she was. Perhaps Frank was out on the 88? Or maybe he’d moved already? Libby stepped forward and rang again. She waited for a minute, her foot tapping on the path, before her heart started to sink. Even with his slow shuffle, Frank would have answered the door by now if he was at home. Damn.
Libby reached into her bag for a piece of paper to scribble down a note asking Frank to call her back if he got it. As she went to post it through the letter box, she caught a glimpse inside through a pane of glass in the door.
The hall was empty. No coats on the rack, no furniture or rug as there had been last time she was here. Libby stepped off the path into the front garden and crossed to the window. There was an old net curtain pulled across it, but she could see through it well enough to make out the living room on the other side. Everything was gone: the stuffed bear, the suit of armor, the throne.
Frank had moved, and Libby had no idea where he’d gone. What was more, she had no way of contacting him, given his mobile phone always rang out. Her shoulders heavy, she turned and began to walk down the pavement, away from the house. But Libby had not made it more than ten steps when she heard a noise behind her and spun around.
“Frank!”
He looked older than Libby remembered, his face gaunt and his shoulders stooped. She hurried back to him.
“Frank, it’s me, Libby.”
“Libby?” His forehead wrinkled, and he lifted a hand to rub his chin. “I don’t know a Libby.”
“We met on the 88.”
“The what?”
Libby opened her mouth to answer, but then Frank looked at her, a twinkle in his eye. “Hello, trouble!”
“Frank! Jeez, you had me there.” Libby stepped forward and gave him a tight hug.
“The look on your face,” he said, laughing as he hugged her back. “I’m not completely doolally. At least not yet.”
“I thought you’d gone already. Your house . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“You’ve caught me just in time. I’m moving today.”
“Where?”
“Willow Court, the place is called; Clara chose it for me. Apparently they have bingo every Monday and movie night on a Friday. Lucky me.” His voice was thick with sarcasm.
“I’m so sorry, Frank.”
“Oh, well, it had to happen eventually. I’ve been lucky it was full, so I got an extra few months here. But some poor sod must have popped their clogs, because a room became free.”
“Are you going now?”
“In a bit. Clara’s there at the moment, moving my stuff in. I asked for some time on my own in the house to say good-bye.”
Libby checked the time on her phone. “Frank, I know this might sound strange, but how would you feel about a quick walk up Parliament Hill?”
“What, now?”
“Yes. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
“I don’t know . . .” He stared at her for a moment. “Oh, go on, then. There’s no point in me moping round this empty place any longer. Let me leave a note for Clara and we’ll go.”
* * *
• • •
THEY’D been walking for twenty minutes when Libby realized the mistake she’d made. She’d underestimated how far it was from Frank’s to the top of the hill and how slow their progress would be. Frank’s footsteps were small and shuffling, and every couple of hundred meters, he had to stop for a rest.
“Frank, maybe we should head home now? Clara must be coming to get you soon,” Libby said as she saw the final, steepest part of the ascent ahead of them.
“It’s fine; she can wait.”
“We could come back another time, with a wheelchair?”
Frank scoffed. “I’ve been climbing this hill for fifty-odd years. Anyway, didn’t you say you wanted me to meet someone?”
“Yes, but we can rearrange for another day.”
“Nonsense. We’re almost there now.”
He pushed on forward, but Libby could tell how much the climb was taking out of him. Several times his feet stumbled, and Libby had to grab his arm to steady him. Sweat was forming on his brow, but his mouth was pursed in determination.
“Frank—”
“I can do it,” he said through gritted teeth. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get to walk up here again, Libby. Please, let me do it this one last time.”
