The Lost Ticket, page 5
“I was,” Rebecca said, although Libby thought she saw her wince slightly at the memory.
“And I can’t help thinking Libby might also feel better about herself if she looked in the mirror and saw a nice haircut and a pair of jeans that actually fitted properly,” Pauline added.
“I might feel better about myself if my family stopped talking about me as if I wasn’t here,” Libby mumbled, but no one was listening.
“Maybe I could come up one day and we could go to the big John Lewis on Oxford Street?” her mum said. “It’s ages since we’ve had a girlie day together, and we could find you some nice new dresses.”
“Sure,” Libby said with a resigned shrug.
“I’ll message Antoni and see if he can squeeze you in for an appointment this week,” Rebecca said, reaching for her phone.
“Mum, I’ve had enough. Can I go and play with my train set?” Hector said.
“Fine,” Rebecca said, not looking up from her screen.
“I’ll come and help you,” Libby said, standing up quickly.
“I don’t need—” Hector started to say, but he must have seen the look in Libby’s eyes, because he stopped, took her hand, and led her out of the room.
CHAPTER
6
Have you got your packed lunch?” Libby asked Hector as she opened the front door the next morning.
“Check.”
“Wellies for forest school?”
“Check.”
“Jet pack for mission to Mars?”
“Check!”
“Great, let’s go.”
They set off down the road, Hector leaping and skipping along the pavement with the enthusiasm of Tigger from Winnie-the-Pooh, with Libby following him, trying not to yawn. She’d thought she would have got used to Hector’s energy levels by now, but two weeks in and she was more exhausted than ever. Since that fateful night when Simon had asked for a break, she had felt as though her battery had been drained and she was constantly shattered.
Once she’d dropped Hector at preschool, Libby made her way to the nearest bus stop. The traffic was heavy this morning, but after a ten-minute wait, an 88 pulled up and Libby boarded, climbed to the upper deck, and sat down in the front-right-hand seat, dumping her bag on the floor. She’d planned to spend the day at home job hunting, but this morning, Rebecca had announced with much fanfare that her hairdresser could squeeze Libby in. She’d tried to protest, but as usual Libby had been steamrollered by her sister. She cringed at the thought of what was to come. Libby had always hated getting her hair cut. As a child, she remembered countless hairdressers staring in dismay at her chaotic ginger curls, before telling her mother that there was only so much that could be done with hair like this. Matters weren’t helped by the fact that Rebecca had long, silky brown hair that their mother had spent hours plaiting into elaborate styles, while the most Libby ever got was her mum swearing as she tried to drag a comb through the knots. Simon had always said he loved Libby’s hair, although he sometimes teased her that she looked like Merida from Brave.
“It’s you!”
Libby startled at a voice to her left. She spun round to see the elderly man in the faded velvet jacket sitting across the aisle.
“You are Libby, aren’t you?” he said, looking suddenly concerned.
“I am. Hi, Frank.”
“I’m so happy I remembered you!” He grinned. “The old memory’s not so good these days, but I knew I wouldn’t forget that beautiful hair.”
“How are you?”
“Good, good. Have you been practicing drawing on the bus, like we discussed?”
Libby gave a wry laugh. “Funny you should say that. I did try once, but I’m afraid it didn’t go well.”
“What happened?”
“Well, I saw this striking-looking man and I remembered what you said, so I had a go at sketching him. But then I made the mistake of taking a photo so I could carry on with it later, and he caught me doing it.”
“Oh, no!”
“Yeah, he wasn’t impressed—I honestly thought he might kill me.”
“Oh, dear, some people can be so grumpy on the bus. But I hope you’ve tried again?”
“Eh . . .” Libby looked down at her lap.
“Come on, now, you can’t let one little incident put you off. What about the National Gallery? Have you been there yet?”
Libby shook her head. “Sorry. I’ve been busy looking after my nephew and . . .” She trailed off; he didn’t need to hear about her tragic life. “It’s so funny bumping into you again.”
Frank didn’t respond, and when Libby looked, he was staring out of the window, his attention fixed on the bus stop they were pulling up at. Libby could see his eyes scanning the passengers waiting to board. When the bus pulled off again, he turned back to her. “Sorry. What did you say?”
“I said I’m surprised to bump into you again.”
“Oh, I’m always on this bus. It’s practically my second home.”
“Where are you headed today?”
“Nowhere in particular.”
“Why are you on the bus, then?” Libby hoped she didn’t sound nosy, but there was something about Frank that she found fascinating.
“Oh, it’s silly, really.” He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, looking faintly embarrassed.
“No, go on, tell me.”
He studied Libby as if weighing something up. “I’m actually looking for someone.”
“Who?”
“A woman.”
Libby waited to see if he’d elaborate, but he didn’t say anything else. “Who is she, Frank?”
He smiled. “Ah, now, that’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time.” As she said it, Libby glanced out the window. They’d reached the bottom of Kentish Town and were turning right into Camden. She must have at least twenty minutes before she needed to get off the bus at the hairdresser’s. “Please, I’d love to hear the story.”
Frank wrinkled his nose. “Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent.”
“Very well.”
He took a deep breath and cleared his throat.
“It was a Sunday in April 1962 and I was on the 88 bus coming back from my aunt and uncle’s house in Mitcham. I spotted her out of the front window as soon as the bus pulled up at Clapham Common Station . . .”
CHAPTER
7
Oh, wow, she sounds incredible!” Libby said when Frank had finished his story. “Did you really look like Rock Hudson back then? Do you still have her sketch?”
“I do. I keep it in pride of place at home,” Frank said.
Libby sat back in her seat, exhaling. The girl really did sound remarkable, so cool and gutsy, plus, she’d stood up to her parents about going to art school. For a moment, Libby tried to imagine what her life might have been like if she’d been that brave, if she’d followed her dream of going to art school rather than giving in to her parents and studying medicine. Probably, she’d have graduated rather than dropping out in the second year, and maybe she’d have moved to London as opposed to returning to Surrey with her tail between her legs. But then she’d never have got a job at the local garden center, never have met Simon when he came in to buy some topsoil, never have accepted his offer to go out for a drink.
“So, tell me everything that happened next,” Libby said, turning back to Frank. “Did you end up dating her?”
“I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple,” Frank said, and Libby waited for him to continue.
“As you can imagine, after she got off the bus, I spent the rest of the journey in a daze. I felt like a stick of dynamite had gone off in my life, blowing it to smithereens. I was already imagining marching into the shop and telling my parents that I wanted to quit and go to drama school. But mostly I was thinking about that extraordinary girl, her hair and those incredible green eyes. I’d never felt like this about anyone before, and I’d watched enough Hollywood romances to know what this meant: that she was the woman I was going to spend the rest of my life with. By the time I got off the bus, I’d planned it all: our engagement and the wedding, me working as an actor and her as an artist, the children we’d have. I walked home in a dream. I swear, Marilyn Monroe herself could have walked past me and I wouldn’t have noticed her.”
Libby laughed, but she was already dreading what was to come.
“When I got home, I went straight to my bedroom and emptied my jacket pockets. There was the picture she’d sketched of me, along with some loose change and my own bus ticket. But I couldn’t find the ticket the girl had given me, the one she’d written her phone number on. I looked in my trouser pockets, but it wasn’t there either, so I went downstairs to check if it had fallen out when I got my keys. But there was no sign of the ticket anywhere. I’d lost it.”
“Oh, no, Frank! What did you do?”
“The first thing I did was retrace my footsteps back to the bus stop, picking up every discarded bus ticket I found in case it had her number on it. When that failed, I seriously considered catching the bus up to Oxford Circus, but then I realized I had no idea where she worked, or which art school she studied at. I didn’t even know her name.”
As he said this, Frank’s face sagged, and Libby couldn’t help but reach out and put her hand on his arm. He didn’t speak for a moment, and Libby could see that he was still back there in the moment, sixty years ago.
“I was beside myself, Libby. In the space of one bus ride, I’d fallen head over heels in love, and now I had no way of finding her again. I sulked around the shop all week, moping and getting under my parents’ feet. On my day off, the following Sunday, I went down to Clapham Common first thing in the morning and waited by the number 88 bus stop. It was a horrible day, pouring with rain, but I was certain that if I waited long enough I would see her. I’d brought a bunch of flowers for her, and I thought how she’d laugh when I told her what had happened, and how one day we’d tell our grandchildren this funny story about how we met . . .”
Frank trailed off, and Libby waited for him to speak again.
“I stood at that bus stop for twelve hours, soaked to the bone and freezing, but she never came. I caught a nasty cold, and by the time I got home that evening, I had to go straight to bed and stayed there for two days. I honestly believed that without her my life was over.”
“Oh, Frank.”
“Well, young people are prone to drama, aren’t they? And of course, my life wasn’t over, but it had changed forever. Everything that girl said had made a deep mark on my heart, and I knew I couldn’t carry on my life as it was. A week later, I told my parents that I didn’t want to work in the shop anymore, that I wanted to go to drama school.”
“What did they say?”
“They were furious—I’d never heard my father shout or threaten the way he did that day. But I remembered what the girl had said about only getting one life, so I stayed resolute. After several weeks of hell, my father calmed down. I applied to drama school the following day.”
“And?”
“I got in,” Frank said with a proud smile. “It turned out all those trips to the pictures had taught me something. I got a place at Central School of Speech and Drama, with a full scholarship, and I started that autumn.”
“So you’re a famous actor?”
“Not famous, I’m afraid. But I did work as an actor for more than fifty years, mainly in the theater. I only stopped a few years ago when I started forgetting my lines.”
“That’s amazing. And what about the girl on the bus? Please tell me you found out what happened to her.”
He shook his head slowly and Libby let out a gasp of realization.
“So that’s why you ride the bus, Frank?”
“I’ve been looking for her for sixty years.”
“Bloody hell.” She slumped back in her seat, suddenly exhausted.
“I told you it was a long story,” Frank said.
At his words, Libby looked out the window and saw they were driving past Hamleys toy shop. She must have missed her stop ages ago, and her hair appointment. Rebecca would kill her, but right now Libby couldn’t have cared less.
“That’s an extraordinary story, Frank.”
“Makes me sound daft, doesn’t it?”
“No! It makes you sound unbelievably romantic.”
“You’re being polite. And I haven’t done it solidly—there have been periods of months, years even, when I haven’t gone looking for her. But somehow I always end up coming back to this bus.”
“But how do you know she’s still in London?”
“I don’t. For all I know, she might have left the city years ago or even have died. But something tells me she’s still alive, here in the city, and as long as I have that feeling, I can’t give up my search.”
As he said that, Libby saw him look out the front window toward the approaching bus stop, as if suddenly remembering the purpose of his journey.
“That’s why I always sit up here in the front seat,” he said, nodding toward the window. “It gives me the best view looking down on the bus stop, so I can see who’s getting on.”
“I can’t believe you’ve been searching all this time. That’s such an extraordinary commitment.”
“I wish everyone thought that. My daughter doesn’t approve at all.”
“You have a daughter?” From the way he’d told the story, Libby had got the impression that Frank had remained single, but he nodded.
“From an ill-fated affair in the seventies. Her mother and I worked together on a play, a terrible production of Macbeth in Sheffield. My daughter, Clara, was the only good thing to come out of it.”
“So you never married?”
“I had a number of relationships over the years, but I’m afraid none of them ever lasted. Clara always blames my girl on the bus.”
“Why?”
“She thinks I’ve never given any woman a proper chance, because I’m always out here searching for the one that got away.”
“And what do you think?”
Frank gave a small chuckle. “She’s probably right, although I’d never tell her that. For a long time I did compare every woman I met to that redheaded artist who stole my heart.”
“I’m not surprised. She sounds wonderful.”
“But you know, over the years, that’s changed. I’m not looking for her now because I want some grand love story. I’m far too old for that sort of thing. I’m looking for her because I want to thank her.” He turned back to Libby. “That girl on the bus changed my life. If it wasn’t for her, I’d have never had the confidence to stand up to my parents, never become an actor and lived the life I’ve had. So I want to say thank you.”
“Well, I think it’s the most romantic story I’ve ever heard.” As Libby said this, Simon flashed into her mind. Would he have tried to track her down if they’d been in the same situation? Or would he have forgotten about her the second she’d got off the bus?
“Sadly, Clara hates me riding this bus route. And pretty soon she might stop me altogether,” Frank said.
“Why?”
“My daughter wants me to move into a care home; she thinks I’m becoming a danger to myself. But if that happens, I won’t be allowed to ride the 88 anymore, and then they might as well put me in a box and bury me.”
“But why would you be a danger to yourself?”
“Well, I have been getting a little forgetful lately. And there was a small incident last year, when I forgot the grill was on and the fire service had to come out. But the nice firewoman was very sympathetic, said it happened all the time. And I’ve not had any issues like that since my carer started, but Clara still worries about me. She says I could get lost on the bus one day.” He scoffed as he said this. “Imagine that. I know this bus route like the back of my hand.”
“Have you tried telling your daughter you don’t want to go into a care home?”
“Yes, but she won’t listen. When Clara gets an idea in her head, she’s like a dog with a bone.”
“That sounds like my sister.”
“She’s threatening to set me up with some social services assessment where they decide whether you’re fit to live alone. Can you believe it? I’ve lived in my house for fifty years, and now some busybody stranger gets to tell me whether I’m allowed to stay in my own home.”
“Maybe the assessment will be fine, and you’ll be able to stay?” Libby said, but Frank was frowning.
“I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t ride this bus, Libby. Time is running out for me to find her.”
His shoulders sagged as he trailed off, and they rode on without speaking. Libby’s mind was whirring with Frank’s story. She couldn’t imagine what that must have felt like, to have had such a strong connection with someone that you’d spend a lifetime trying to find them. How on earth would he cope if that purpose got taken away from him?
“Frank, have you ever tried any other ways of looking for her, aside from on the bus?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, have you tried to find her on the electoral register or something like that?”
“The problem is, I never asked her name, a fact I kick myself about every single day. The only information I have is that she lived in Clapham and went to art school. I tried contacting all the London art schools back at the time, but understandably none of them would give me any information about their students. I even stood outside a few of them, hoping to see her arrive or leave, but to no avail.”
“What about looking on the Internet?”
Frank shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know the first thing about all of that. I’ve always been a terrible Luddite.”
“Well, I’m no expert, but I could have a look for you if you like? Research red-haired female artists who’d be about the right age, that sort of thing.”
