Frankie (17 page)

Frankie took a step forward so that June was protected in the background. ‘Fuck off,' she hissed. ‘I'm not in the mood tonight.'

The girl moved cockily forward, glancing over Frankie's shoulder to look at the bag June was carrying.
The last time they had met, Frankie had been too distracted to notice much about her, but now, in the yellow light of a street lamp, she saw that her lips were covered in cold sores, and her nose was raw with infection from her piercings. She had an almost sarcastic look on her face as she glared at Frankie: this girl had chickened out of a confrontation once before, it seemed to say. She was bound to do so again. Her companion held back, looking up and down the street for signs of trouble.

Frankie stood her ground until the girl was no more than half a metre from her. She could vaguely hear June chattering in the background, telling her to move, to come home and leave them alone. But Frankie knew from experience that it had gone too far for that. There was a moment of silence, the calm before the storm, and then the girl pounced at her. She grabbed Frankie's hair in a vicious clump and twisted it round sharply so that she gasped with pain. Frankie fell to one knee, and the girl put her face up close. ‘You, get out of here like I told you. The old lady's mine.'

Even though she couldn't see June, Frankie was aware of her backing away from the scene in terror. The girl twisted her hair harder; as she did so, Frankie clawed her right hand in front of her face and grabbed at the rings piercing the girl's nose. She pulled as hard as she could. The girl screamed and let go of her hair. Frankie fell back and looked in her hand: two small rings lay in her palm, smeared in a little puddle of blood. The girl was on her knees, her face in her hands and blood seeping through her fingers; her friend took one look and ran away down the street.

Frankie flicked the nose rings down onto the ground,
a look of disgust on her face, then wiped her hand on her coat. She took June, who was standing in shock at what had happened, by the arm. ‘Come on,' she said urgently. ‘Let's get off the street.'

‘But … the police …' June stuttered. She appeared horrified by what had happened in front of her. ‘How could you do that to that poor girl?'

‘It was her or me,' Frankie snapped. She took one look at the pitiful sight of her assailant on the ground, put her hand in her pocket and fished out one of the ten-pound notes June had given her. Bending down to the weeping girl she pressed it into her bloody hand. Then she turned back to the older woman. ‘And the police won't be interested,' she muttered. ‘Come on.'

Christmas was always a time of mixed emotions for Frankie. In some respects it was easier than other times of the year – the punters were a bit more generous with their loose change, and the charitable organizations would open up more redundant buildings to supply extra shelter and food to see the homeless through the festive period. Of course, there was never any sign of them come January, but no matter: at least they made December a bit more bearable. At the same time, though, Christmas could be harsh. The glut of decorations and advertising everywhere you turned seemed to taunt you, to make it impossible to forget what you did not have. It was an unspoken thing, but Frankie knew that at this time of year everyone on the street was thinking of whatever home they had once known.

But this Christmas was different. Frankie was different. She had been working in the flower shop for four weeks now, and the transformation in her had been astonishing. June had watched with pleasure as the nervous young girl with suspicion in her eyes had gained confidence – not the aggressive confidence she had seen that first night after they had gone to the pub, more like a self-assuredness, self-esteem almost. It suited her.

It wasn't just her persona that had changed; she looked different too. Before, her face had been gaunt and white, worn thin by poor food and not enough of it; but a few
weeks of eating properly meant that she had filled out and colour had returned to her cheeks. Now that she could wash properly every day, the blemishes on her once dirty skin had faded, and her hair – which she kept short and
would
insist on dying black, much to June's disapproval – had a lustre that was missing before. Her fingernails, once broken and dirty, were beginning to grow back. One evening June had caught her filing them down. Frankie had tried to hide the nail file as if it were some illicit object, clearly embarrassed that she was doing something to take care of her appearance after so many years. She had spent some of the money she earned in the shop on new clothes – not brand new, June suspected, but cast-offs from charity shops. Her taste was for simplicity – jeans and plain jumpers – and she always wore the same simple blue headscarf that exaggerated the blue of her eyes.

On occasions June would tell her companion how pretty she was that day; Frankie would look uncomfortable and change the subject. But despite the fact that there was a gap between them, a social divide that June could never cross, she thought she understood why. In some respects Frankie had had to grow up very quickly – too quickly. But in others she was still the little girl who ran away when she was fifteen. She had been unable to grow gradually into womanhood like a young girl should. Starved of love, she had grown like a plant starved of light; but now she was blossoming like the flowers she sold so effectively to the customers in the little shop.

Since she started, business had picked up. June had never made much money out of the place – that wasn't why she did it. But since Frankie had arrived, custom had
been swift. June didn't know what was attracting them. Maybe it was the increasingly colourful displays in the front that Frankie took such pleasure in creating; maybe it was Frankie herself. The older lady had noticed certain customers coming in on a more regular basis, entranced, perhaps, by this new employee with her occasional shy smiles, her scrupulously neat apron and the headscarf worn so artlessly. It was clear to her eyes that had seen so much that Frankie had her admirers, but the young woman seemed so immersed in her new life that she was oblivious to it. Sometimes June would suggest that Frankie should go out, try and meet people, have fun; but Frankie would just smile and say she was happy to stay at home.

A couple of weeks before Christmas, Frankie persuaded June to stock Christmas trees and blood-red poinsettias. She had never bothered with Christmas trees before – it seemed like too much bother, and in any case she would never have been able to move them in and out of the shop. But Frankie was persistent, and sure enough they sold well. By Christmas Eve they had only four or five left.

The two women were going to spend Christmas quietly together, and both were looking forward to it. They had grown close in the last month, and felt easy in each other's company. Often they said nothing for long periods of time, but it was a comfortable silence. June did her best not to pry into Frankie's past, knowing that she would open up when the time was right, and her young friend appreciated not being faced with a barrage of constant questions. June had no family to speak of, and was glad of the company. As they set up shop on Christmas Eve, though, Frankie thought that June seemed distant somehow, not her usual self. She had been perfectly chirpy the
night before, chattering away about the meal she was going to cook on Christmas Day. Would the turkey be cooked through? Did Frankie like sprouts? Frankie had smiled indulgently and assured her that everything would be fine. But now the sparkly June of the previous night had been replaced. ‘Are you all right?' Frankie asked as she handed her a cup of tea.

‘I'm sorry, dearie?' June seemed miles away. ‘Oh yes, fine. Just a bit of a headache. I might have a little sit down while you set up, if you don't mind.'

‘OK,' Frankie said brightly, and went about the business of dragging the remaining Christmas trees out to the front, and arranging the rest of the flowers on their metal shelves. As the day wore on, though, June seemed more and more out of sorts. Frankie did her best to cheer her up, but she seemed to be in a world of her own, leaving her young assistant to deal almost entirely with the running of the shop while she sat down and stared vacantly into space.

By five o'clock, Frankie was exhausted. Most of their stock had been sold to customers wanting to take a bunch of flowers to wherever they were going for Christmas, and now they were down to a single, small tree. She was just about to shut the shop when a young man came in, somewhat flustered, and looked around in a way that Frankie had grown to recognize – the look of a man wanting to buy something, but not knowing where to start.

‘Can I help you?' she asked him in her quiet voice.

He was wearing a heavy coat and scarf, and his longish hair was tousled and windswept. She had a feeling that he was one of those who would quiz her in some depth about whatever they had on display. June always gave her
an amused look when she answered these questions as earnestly and as fully as she could – she didn't know why.

‘I need a Christmas tree,' he said with a confidence most men didn't seem to be able to muster in a florist's shop.

‘We've one more outside,' she told him. ‘I'll show you.'

As Frankie led him outside, the man started questioning her. ‘My mum's coming to Bath to stay with me for Christmas. What can I get her? What do you think she'll like?'

‘Poinsettias are nice at Christmas,' she suggested.

‘Are they the ones with the red leaves? This is fine, by the way.' He tapped the Christmas tree and they started to walk back inside. Suddenly he stopped. ‘Oh my God,' he breathed.

‘What is it?' Frankie asked, pushing past, but instantly she saw for herself. June, who had been sitting at the little coffee table, was slumped over in the chair. Frankie ran towards her and straightened her up in her seat. Her eyes were open, but glazed, and she showed no signs of responsiveness when Frankie spoke to her, first in a quiet, comforting voice, and then loudly and in a state of panic. ‘She needs an ambulance,' the man said, calmly taking control of the situation and dialling a number on the mobile phone he had pulled out of his jacket. Before Frankie knew it, he had called 999 and was then by her side, comforting June with constant, reassuring words.

Suddenly everything was a blur. When she looked back on the events of the evening, she could remember only disjointed fragments: holding June's hand as they waited for the ambulance; shouting at the man in the shop to do something, even though there was nothing he could do; the anxious look on the face of the paramedic placing an
oxygen mask over June as she lay on the stretcher in the ambulance; the seemingly interminable wait at the hospital; the journey back to the flat, alone in the cab; how empty the place seemed without the gentle babble of June's chattering.

She'd had a stroke, the doctor whose face she forgot as soon as she left the hospital had told her. A bad one. She was lucky to be alive. It would be some time before they could assess the extent of the damage; they would have to keep her in for several days. Was Frankie the next of kin? ‘No,' she told them sharply, not wanting to sign her name on any piece of paper. ‘I'm just a friend. She doesn't have any family.'

And so the turkey remained uncooked, the sprouts uneaten. Frankie didn't care. She had missed out on enough Christmases – one more made no difference. All she wanted to do was make sure that the lady who had taken her in, shown her more kindness than anyone ever had, who was more maternal towards her than her own mother had ever been, came home.

It was going to be a quiet Christmas at The Stables – Harriet did not feel like celebrating. The press interest had gradually died down, the police had stopped calling. It was just the two of them. But something had changed in William since the picture of Francesca had come to light. It was nothing she could put her finger on, nothing she could pinpoint to criticize in him, but he had seemed detached, unwilling to help her through this traumatic time in the way he had when her daughter had first disappeared. She needed him now more than ever, and he just didn't seem to be there. He was always working
late, finding one excuse or another, and on his days off he would take himself out of the house and she wouldn't see him for hours on end. When they did occasionally spend time together, he seemed monosyllabic and distant.

He had time off over Christmas. Maybe she could talk to him, get him to open up a bit. She had made an extra effort that day, decorating the tree and cooking a meal – making sure the whole house seemed festive for their Christmas Eve together. But as the time for him to get back from work came and went, and the dinner spoiled in the oven, Harriet realized that tonight was going to be just like all the others. She poured herself another glass of wine, not knowing whether to weep or to throw the drink against the wall in fury.

It was half past nine when he returned. Harriet could not smell the alcohol on his breath because she had been drinking too. ‘Where have you been?' she questioned him aggressively. William didn't answer. He just walked past her into the front room where he poured himself a whisky. ‘Where have you been?' she repeated. ‘It's Christmas Eve.'

‘Working,' he said shortly.

Harriet knew he was lying. Normally she wouldn't have the confidence to confront him, but the wine had loosened her tongue. ‘No, you haven't,' she accused. ‘I've been cooking all day for you. It's ruined.'

‘Look, Harriet,' he said dismissively. ‘Things don't stop just because you've been cooking. We'll call for a takeaway.'

‘I don't
want
a takeaway,' Harriet screamed at him. ‘I want dinner with my husband. On Christmas Eve!' She drunkenly threw her glass in his direction. It missed, but the wine soaked his face as it flew past.

‘What the hell's wrong with you?' he shouted as he wiped the alcohol from his cheek.

‘What do you mean, what's wrong with me? What's wrong with
you
?' Harriet was uncontrollable now, yelling like she had not yelled since the dark days after Francesca's disappearance. ‘You've hardly spoken to me for weeks, ever since we saw the picture of Francesca. You're never here. It's like I don't have a husband any more. Like I don't have anyone.'

‘Don't be so stupid,' William blustered, his eyes flashing. He was doing his best not to raise his voice, but he couldn't prevent it.

‘Don't tell me not to be stupid! What am I supposed to think?' She glared at him, fighting the urge to say what she wanted, but it overcame her. ‘Half of me thinks Francesca was right,' she hissed. ‘Half of me thinks you
were
interfering with her.'

William stood perfectly still. ‘Don't say that, Harriet,' he whispered. ‘You know it's not true.'

‘Well, sometimes I wonder.'

It happened in a flash. William strode across the room and thumped his screaming wife across the side of her face with the back of his hand. She stumbled backwards onto the sofa in shock, touching her fingers to her stinging cheek and gazing up at her husband with a mixture of fear and apology. William stood above her, red-faced and shaking. He raised his hand as if to strike again, then closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let his arm fall to his side. ‘You forced me to do that,' he told his terrified wife in a threatening voice. ‘Don't ever do it again.' He turned and left the room. Harriet sat there, too shocked even to move, as she listened to the front door open and then slam shut.

She walked about the house in a daze. This had never happened before – she had never seen him like this. He was tired, she told herself. He had been working hard, and she shouldn't have riled him like that. It had been the wine talking – she poured the remainder of the bottle down the sink in an act of defiance. She had the presence of mind to turn off the oven, but she left the food inside – something she had never done before – and walked upstairs to bed. Looking at herself in the bathroom mirror she saw a patch of purple bruising gradually appearing on her face. She touched it lightly and winced at its tenderness before removing her clothes and creeping into bed. As she lay there, part of her wondered if he would ever do this again, and what she would do if he did.

It was past midnight when she heard the door opening again. William stumbled up the stairs and into the bedroom. He dropped his clothes on the floor and fell into bed beside her. Harriet could smell the alcohol now, but whether that was because she had sobered up or he was more drunk, she couldn't tell. She turned to face him in the darkness. ‘I'm sorry, William,' she whispered softly, her voice trembling slightly. ‘I didn't mean to say what I did.'