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 ofMetroon 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 beimpossible 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?”
•••
THEaddress 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 wasnumber 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...
