“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’venot 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 thatshe 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.”
“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 notsure 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?
