The Lost Ticket, page 6
“You’d do that for me?”
“Of course. I mean, it’s a long shot but it has to be worth a go.”
A smile spread across Frank’s face, starting with his mouth and ending up in his eyes. “I don’t know what to say. That’s one of the kindest things anyone has ever offered to do for me.”
“Well, I’ve got some time on my hands right now, so I’m happy to help. I’ll have a dig around and see what I can find.”
“Thank you, Libby,” he said, and she thought she saw the glisten of a tear in his eye. “Thank you.”
CHAPTER
8
PEGGY
Sometimes, my bus journey coincides with school chucking-out time.
Now, I know a lot of oldies don’t like being on the bus at the same time as schoolkids. You remember Eileen from number eighteen? Terrible dress sense, drove her husband to an early grave with her moaning? She always complains if she ends up on the bus with a load of youths, says they’re too noisy and disrespectful, not giving up their seats for her. But I love it. Nothing makes me happier than a bus full of youngsters, with their big voices and teenage swagger, brown and black and white skin all together in one sweaty, hormonal tin can on wheels. I sit in my seat behind the wheelchair spot and I watch them like I’m at the cinema. I love listening to their gossip, the schoolyard banter and insults, the tales of heartache and love.
Do you remember what it felt like to be that age? Because I do, better than I remember what it felt like to be forty or fifty. Everything felt so huge back then. There were no small emotions, no little pleasures or irritations—everything was either the biggest triumph or the end of the bleedin’ world. I’m not sure if I’ve ever told you this, but I kept a diary all through my teenage years. I’d mostly fill it with sketches and doodles, but I also used to write these terrible poems about how hard it was being me, how no one understood me. Honestly, you’d have laughed if you read them, love. Thankfully, my father threw them all out when I left home, so you were spared.
You know, it’s funny. I forget there was ever a time when we weren’t in each other’s lives. I assume you were there by my side when I was born, there when I started school or wrote my first awful poems. I wonder what you’d have thought of me if we’d met earlier. Because I wasn’t always like that cocky nineteen-year-old you first laid eyes on, believe you me. By then I’d been through enough battles that I was already pretty tough, or at least I liked to think I was. But back when I was younger, I was much shyer and more nervous. I used to sit at the back of class, head down, sketching in my math book when I should have been doing arithmetic. The teachers all said I was stupid, but I wasn’t; I just had no interest in algebra or Shakespeare’s sonnets. All I wanted to do was draw.
Of course, it drove my parents mad, especially my father. And when I told him I wanted to go to art college, well, you should have seen how he went off. People like us don’t go to art school, he shouted, loud enough that the neighbors banged on the wall. You’ll go to secretarial college like your sisters and then you’ll damn well get married.
Well, he got his way in the end, didn’t he?
Do you remember my father’s reaction when he found out I was pregnant? I knew this would happen if you went off to that art school, he screamed, like one of those fire-and-brimstone preachers. Twenty-one, unmarried, and pregnant. You’ve brought shame on our family.
I can laugh about it now, love, but at the time I thought he was going to murder me. Remember when I walked up the aisle, his face was so purple, he looked like he was going to explode? And my mother, holding her hankie like she was at a bloody funeral. Thankfully you caught my eye and made me smile; otherwise I’m not sure how I’d have got through it.
I find I’ve been thinking about those early days more and more lately. I’ll be on the bus, minding my own business, when suddenly I’ll see or hear something that takes me right back, fifty or sixty years. It’s the strangest thing, all these memories floating up again. I suppose that’s what happens when you get to our age, isn’t it? And I’m not complaining, mind. The other day, watching all the schoolkids messing around on the 88, I could remember so clearly what it felt like to be their age, all the fear and the hopes and the longings.
They say youth is wasted on the young, but I’m not sure I agree. I think if you gave me those big emotions now—those feelings of triumph and disaster—I wouldn’t know what to do with them. No, these days, finding a fresh copy of Metro on the bus is about as much excitement as I can handle.
CHAPTER
9
For the rest of the week, Libby spent every spare moment she had searching online for Frank’s girl on the bus. He’d said he’d met her in April 1962 and she’d looked around eighteen or nineteen, so Libby started by looking for British female artists who were born in the early to mid-1940s. That produced a number of options, but none came up who had red hair and records of studying in London in the early sixties. Besides, Libby was aware that this woman might not have gone on to be a renowned artist, so she needed to broaden her search. Next, she tried finding alumni lists of London art colleges from the 1960s. A number of them had Facebook groups, so she posted on those, which led to several leads, but they all came to nothing. After four days of hunting, Libby had an elaborate color-coded spreadsheet and a cricked neck from sitting slumped over her laptop screen, but she was still no closer to finding Frank’s woman.
On Saturday morning, Libby skipped Rebecca’s oat milk porridge—and another lecture on missing the hairdresser’s appointment—by heading down to her now-favorite café for breakfast. She’d promised Frank an update on her search today, but she was dreading having to tell him that it might be impossible to trace this woman online. He’d looked so excited when she’d offered to help on Monday, so desperately grateful that someone was taking him seriously, and now she had to tell him she’d failed.
Libby ordered a cappuccino and a chocolate croissant, then took a seat at one of the small tables outside the café. There was a bus stop on the other side of the pavement, and as Libby drank her coffee, she scanned the passengers waiting for buses. How many thousands of hours must Frank have spent doing this over the past sixty years? And all for nothing if he ended up in a care home without ever having found his woman. Libby might have been overtired, but the thought made her want to cry.
Once she’d finished her breakfast, Libby got up to leave. She was going to try another few hours of online hunting, and then she’d have to admit defeat and call Frank. But as she walked past the bus stop, her eye was caught by a piece of paper taped up next to the bus timetables. Libby stopped to read it.
MISSING DOG, the poster read, with a black-and-white photo of a small, wiry-looking dog. Scamp has been missing since Tuesday. He’s a black terrier with a white patch on his chest. Last seen on Alma Road. Reward if found. Underneath were an e-mail address and a phone number. Libby stared at the poster, then reached into her bag for her phone and dialed the number Frank had given her on Monday. It rang seven or eight times and Libby was about to hang up when she heard a click.
“HELLO?” Frank’s voice came bellowing down the line. “HELLO?”
“Frank, it’s me, Libby.”
“WHO?”
“Libby, from the bus.”
“AH, LIBBY, HELLO!”
“Frank, you don’t need to shout. I can hear you fine.”
“Oh, sorry. I’m not really used to this thing. No one ever rings me on it. How are you?”
“I’m fine. I was wondering if you’re free to meet up today? I’ve had a new idea I’d like to run past you.”
“Of course. I’m just heading out for a walk up Parliament Hill, but why don’t you come over later for tea?”
* * *
• • •
THE address Frank had given Libby wasn’t too far from her sister’s house. But as she left that afternoon, ominous gray clouds were gathering overhead, so she made her way to the bus stop rather than walk. After a short wait, an 88 pulled up, and Libby jumped on board and headed straight for the stairs.
She saw him as soon as she reached the top deck, and her stomach dropped. The angry punk. He was sitting in the seat directly opposite the steps, and he glanced up and spotted Libby at the exact same moment she saw him. His face didn’t move, but she saw a flash of recognition in his eyes and felt her face glow with embarrassment at the memory of their last encounter. She averted her eyes and hurried down the aisle to the back of the bus, as far away from him as possible, but even at that distance, Libby could feel the contempt radiating off him. He was wearing the same beaten-up leather jacket as last time, but his spiked black hair now had bright red tips. Why would someone give themselves such a flamboyant hairstyle, and then complain when people stared at them? She felt a flash of anger that combined with her embarrassment to make her even hotter.
The bus moved slowly up Kentish Town Road and onto Highgate Road. At every stop Libby held her breath, hoping the man would get off, but he didn’t budge. Finally the bus announcement signaled their approach to Parliament Hill Fields, and she hit the bell and made her way along the aisle. But as she reached the top of the stairs, two things happened at once: the punk stood up and the bus braked suddenly. Libby was thrown sideways, her face crashing into his chest. She was hit by the scent of leather and soap, and pushed herself away from him, aghast.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, even though it hadn’t been her fault.
The man didn’t say anything, but Libby saw his right hand flex by his side. She turned and hurried down the stairs two at a time. When she reached the lower doors, she almost banged on them in her impatience to get off. After what seemed like an eternity, the doors opened and she jumped onto the pavement beside Hampstead Heath.
Frank’s address was a five-minute walk away, so Libby checked the map on her phone, then crossed Highgate Road and set off up Swain’s Lane. But she’d not gone more than one hundred meters when she had the strange feeling she was being followed. She glanced back over her shoulder. Shit, it was him. Libby told herself it was a coincidence, but she still picked up her pace. When she reached the corner of Frank’s road, she glanced back again, but he was still there, steadily following her. Libby felt her heart rate start to climb. Maybe he was still furious about her photographing him and was coming to exact his revenge? She was practically jogging now as she passed large houses numbered four and six. Frank had said he was number twenty-two, but would Libby get there in time before the man caught up with her? She didn’t turn around again but she could sense he was still behind her, gaining ground.
Fourteen . . . Sixteen . . .
Libby was panting now, sweat forming on her lip.
Eighteen . . . Twenty . . .
Finally, there it was, Frank’s house. Libby turned in through his gate and hurried toward the front door. As she did, she saw the man stop on the pavement in front of the house, watching her. Libby felt a surge of rage flood her body.
“Why the hell are you following me?”
The words were out of her mouth before she realized what she was doing. He was still staring at her, his face expressionless.
“Is this how you get your kicks, following women and scaring the hell out of them? Because if it is, you’re sick.”
“I’m not following you,” the man said, but then he started to walk toward her.
“Stay back!” Libby shouted. “My friend lives here and he’ll call the police.”
The man tilted his head to one side. “Frank?”
“Yes!” Libby paused, suddenly confused. “What? You know Frank?”
“I do.”
He reached into his pocket and she lurched backward in case he was about to pull out a weapon. But instead his hand emerged holding a key.
“Excuse me,” he said, and it took Libby a moment to realize what he wanted. She stepped sideways, out of his way, and the man slid the key into the lock and opened the door. He walked in without so much as looking at her, leaving the door hanging open.
Libby hovered on the front step, still out of breath from racing here. She peered into the house, but all she could see was a dim hallway with several doors leading off it. She was about to call out for Frank when one of the doors opened, and he stepped into the hallway.
“Libby! What are you doing standing out there? Come on in.”
Libby was unsure if she wanted to walk into the same building as that horrible man. But Frank was watching her expectantly, so she stepped in and pulled the front door closed behind her. There was a musty smell in the hallway, combined with a slight burned aroma.
“Come on through,” Frank said, and Libby followed him as he shuffled into the front room.
It was a large space, crammed to the rafters with furniture, ornaments, and pictures. As Libby looked around, she saw a full suit of armor leaning up against a grandfather clock, and a giant stuffed bear, and the head of someone who looked like Henry VIII. It was like the strangest, most chaotic museum she’d ever seen.
“Souvenirs from my acting days,” Frank said with a proud nod. “I always make friends with the props and costume departments on a play, and they often let me take a little souvenir home at the end of a production. I’ve gathered quite a collection over the years.”
“It’s incredible, Frank.”
“Here, look at this one.” Frank reached across to a tall coat stand and lifted down a dusty black bowler hat. “This was worn by Sir Laurence Olivier in a production of The Entertainer we were in together in 1963.”
“You worked with Olivier?”
“Mine was only a small part, of course; he was the star. And what do you think of this?”
Frank picked up an ornate hand mirror and passed it to Libby. “That was a prop used by Jean Simmons in A Little Night Music. She was a wonderful actress, I tell you, and very beautiful. Although not as beautiful as my girl on the bus, of course.”
Libby handed the mirror back to Frank and he stared at it for a moment. “You know, when I was onstage all those years ago, I used to look out into the audience and wonder if she was out there. I could never see her, of course; with all the bright stage lights, the audience are mere shadows to us actors. But I used to imagine that she’d be sitting out there, watching the play, and that maybe she’d remember me as the boy on the bus.”
“Maybe she was, Frank,” Libby said gently.
He put the mirror down and moved toward the far wall. “This is what I really want to show you. My favorite thing in the whole house.”
He lifted down a small picture frame, carefully brushing some dust off the glass before he handed it to Libby.
It was a pencil sketch on a piece of paper yellowed with age. The lines must have faded over the years, but Libby could still make out a young man with a tall quiff of hair, a long Roman nose, and almond-shaped eyes. It was a beautiful sketch and unmistakably Frank.
“Is this hers?” Libby asked.
“The very one. It’s good, isn’t it?”
“It really is. I can’t believe she did this on the bus.”
“It must have only taken her about ten minutes.”
“Wow,” Libby said, remembering her own terrible attempt at drawing on the bus.
Frank sat down in a battered old armchair and signaled Libby toward what looked like a throne.
“From a production of King Lear with dear old Michael Gambon,” he said as she perched cautiously on the edge. “Now, where is that tea of ours? I hear you met Dylan on the way in.”
Libby didn’t answer, worried she might say something rude. Was that man a relation? Frank had mentioned only a daughter, but perhaps he had a grandson or a serial-killer nephew. Through the wall, Libby could hear sounds coming from what must have been the kitchen.
“I know he looks alarming, but he’s a pussycat really,” Frank continued when Libby didn’t say anything. “I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
“Is he a relative?”
“No. He’s my carer.”
“Carer!” Libby hadn’t meant the word to come out with quite such incredulity, but she couldn’t help herself. That man looked after people for a living?
“Not what you were expecting?” Frank said with a chuckle. “I’ll admit I had the same reaction the first time I saw him. He rang the doorbell and I thought he was here to murder me.”
“No, it’s just—” Libby stopped as she remembered the awful way he’d shouted at her on the bus.
“Ah, here’s the tea,” Frank said as the door opened and the punk walked in. He was carrying a tray that held a teapot under a knitted cozy and two floral teacups. The whole sight was utterly bizarre. “I was just telling Libby here what a sweetheart you are, Dylan.”
The man didn’t say anything as he placed the tray down on a table between them and retreated toward the door.
“Only two cups?” Frank said. “Come on, don’t be so antisocial. Join us.”
“I can’t hang about,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly. “I’ve got to get to my next job.”
“Oh, come on, you have time for a quick cuppa. And I’d like you to meet my friend.”
Dylan looked as if meeting Libby was absolutely the last thing he wanted to do, and he turned and left the room.
“Bring a chair from the kitchen too,” Frank called after him, and then sat back with satisfaction. “Now, when he comes back, you can tell us about this new idea you’ve come up with.”
Oh, bugger. It had felt like a good idea this morning, but now Libby was here it seemed ridiculous. Plus, Dylan would probably stab her with a teaspoon. He came back in, carrying a teacup and a kitchen chair.
