Thursday's Children (13 page)

‘Frieda? My God, it is! Frieda Klein!’

Vanessa – now Shaw, but it was hard not to think of her as Vanessa Bussock, fifth in the school register, which Frieda could still hear, like a kind of jingle, in her head – stood in the doorway, her face and indeed her whole body expressing comic surprise.

‘Hello, Vanessa.’

Frieda had got up early that morning – well before the lights in Eva’s house had gone on – and, after a mug of coffee, had walked to the Shaws’ house, a small cottage with a fraying thatched roof on the edge of town. Eva had told her both of them worked and she wanted to catch them before they left.

‘Frieda Klein,’ Vanessa repeated, in a wondering tone and then, all of a sudden, pulled Frieda against her squashy body, as if she was her mother, cooing something indistinguishable. She smelt of soap and of baking. At last she left off and took a step back to examine her. ‘I never thought I’d see you again. But I would have recognized you anywhere.’

Frieda wasn’t sure she would have recognized Vanessa. She used to have glossy brown hair, worn long and layered; now it was short and turning grey. She used to be curvy; now she was comfortably plump, in a knee-length dress and a slightly baggy grey cardigan. Only her eyes were the same: round, blue, warm, perpetually surprised. And underneath
the left eye was a tiny smoky birthmark, like a tear running down her cheek; she’d forgotten that. Suddenly Vanessa twisted round and called out, ‘Ewan! Ewan! Come here! You’ll never guess who’s standing in front of me!’

She took Frieda by the arm and practically pulled her over the threshold. ‘Coffee?’ she said. ‘Or tea? Breakfast? I’ve got to leave for work in about fifteen minutes, but I could get you something. How lovely! But why are you here? My God. Has something happened?’

‘Coffee,’ said Frieda. ‘Please.’

‘I’ve
read
about you!’ She looked at Frieda smilingly. ‘You’re famous, aren’t you? Ewan! Ewan, come here
now
.’

She led Frieda into a kitchen. Two teenage girls were sitting at the table; the younger one, who was plump and brown-haired and reminded Frieda of the Vanessa she used to know, was eating a bowl of cereal, holding it to her mouth and spooning in mouthfuls as rapidly as she could; the other was scrolling through Facebook messages on her laptop. She was blonde, slender, listless-looking and rather beautiful.

‘Amelia, Charlotte, this is Frieda.’

‘The girls looked up. Frieda nodded at them.

‘I used to go to school with Frieda,’ said Vanessa, putting the kettle on, shaking coffee grounds into a cafetière. ‘But I haven’t seen her for over twenty years!’

‘Wow,’ said the older one, Charlotte, but apathetically.

At that moment, Ewan bounded into the room. He had always bounded. He was quite tall and bulky, with a shock of chestnut hair that as a teenager he had worn long, curling to his shoulders, but was now collar-length. He was wearing a grey suit and a dark blue shirt but didn’t manage to look
neat. There was something about him that was slightly shambolic.

When he saw Frieda he did a cartoonish double-take, his eyes opening, then blinking, his mouth opening, then shutting. ‘Is it really you?’ he asked, taking a step towards her and stopping again.

‘It really is.’

Ewan reached her at last, and gave her a hug that almost lifted her off the floor. ‘Welcome,’ he said, as he let her go. ‘Whatever it is you’re doing here, we’re very glad you’ve come.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Dad, we’re late,’ said Charlotte, closing her laptop. ‘Again.’

‘Is that the time?’

‘It’s worse than that,’ said Vanessa, putting a mug of coffee in front of Frieda. ‘The clock’s six minutes slow.’

‘God,’ he said again, half comically. ‘They’ll write my name in a little book.’ He turned to Frieda. ‘I work for the council and they’re – what’s that horrible word?
Rationalizing
.’

‘You go,’ said Vanessa, giving him a little push. ‘I’ll make a proper date with Frieda.’

‘Right. Kids, we’re off.’

He put on his coat, patted his pockets for keys and phone, looked around the room as if he was forgetting something, then left.

‘I’ve come at a bad time,’ said Frieda.

‘No! Or, at least, yes, but no, it’s fine. More than fine. What are you doing here anyway, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘My mother’s dying.’

‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.’

‘We’ve only just learned. I’m staying with Eva. She mentioned that you and Ewan were married and living in Braxton.’

‘And you just thought you’d pop in for a cup of coffee?’

‘In a way.’ Frieda had been thinking about what she would say to the inevitable questions. ‘As you know, I left quite suddenly –’

‘I’ll say.’

‘Without even a goodbye.’

‘Yes, it was very mysterious.’ There was a little snap of hostility in Vanessa’s voice. ‘We thought we were your friends. You know, sharing secrets, confiding in each other.’

‘So I wanted to make contact again, find out what had happened to everyone,’ Frieda persevered.

‘Well, I’m not so interesting. I’ve moved about one and a half miles, I’ve put on several pounds, my hair’s turning grey, and I’ve married the man who was my teenage sweetheart.’

‘You’re wrong. It’s very interesting,’ said Frieda. ‘And impressive. That kind of commitment.’

‘Really?’ Vanessa softened. ‘It’s odd, isn’t it? The first person I ever fell in love with, and here we are.’ She made an expansive gesture.

‘With two daughters.’

‘Two
teenage
daughters – the oldest of whom is now about the same age as I was when I started going out with her father and as you were when you left. Imagine that! We didn’t hang around, though of course we didn’t have a clue what we were doing at the time. You only realize later. It’s a war zone.’

‘Did they know Becky Capel?’

‘Oh, God, that was tragic. Poor Becky. She was a sweetheart. I knew her quite well. She was a friend of Charlotte’s. They were in the same year at school. It’s been devastating for her. So young.’ There were suddenly tears in her eyes. She dragged a sleeve across them. ‘Such a waste.’

‘Yes.’

‘Maddie’s in tatters.’ A little gleam came into her eyes. ‘Hang on, didn’t I hear something about …?’

‘I met Becky a couple of times,’ said Frieda, calmly. ‘On a professional basis. Because Maddie was worried about her.’

‘Yes,’ said Vanessa, musingly. ‘That’s right. I knew I’d heard something.’ Her manner had shifted slightly. ‘Listen, I’ve got to rush off in a minute. I’m due at work. I’m a dental hygienist, not quite as glamorous as being a famous therapist, but sometimes I think healthy teeth are as important as a clear conscience.’ She picked up her coat. ‘One minute, though – Ewan will never forgive me if I don’t make a date. When are you here until?’

‘I’m going to be staying three days or so a week. For my mother. I’ll text you my email and you can suggest days. How’s that?’

‘Great.’

Vanessa picked up a used envelope and wrote her number on it. She handed it to Frieda.

‘Do you have contacts for other people?’ Frieda asked.

‘Like?’

‘Oh. Chas, Jeremy. Lewis,’ she added, and saw a little smile appear and then disappear on Vanessa’s face.

‘As a matter of fact, I do! I’m helping to arrange a reunion.’

‘Eva mentioned something about that.’

‘You must come. It will be my coup. The famous Frieda Klein.’ Again, that undertone of resentment. ‘Anyway, I’ll mail you their details once you’ve sent me that text.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And now I’ve got to run.’

‘Of course.’

She stood up, putting her mug in the sink, pulling on her coat. ‘Can I offer you a lift?’ Vanessa asked at the door.

‘No, it’s fine. I’d like to walk.’

‘You haven’t changed one bit, you know.’

‘Oh, I probably have.’

When Frieda reached the lane at the end of the drive, she switched on her phone. There was a message from Karlsson. She rang him straight back.

‘I’ve found him,’ he said.

‘Is he still in the police force?’

‘He’s done quite nicely. He’s a detective chief inspector.’

‘Do you think he’ll talk to me?’

‘I rang him. He’s expecting your call.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘He still in the area, somewhere up near Norwich.’

‘That’s forty miles away.’

‘It’s still East Anglia. Doesn’t that count as the same area?’

‘I don’t know. Around here there are people who think the next village is a foreign country.’

‘Are you going to see him?’

‘If I can.’

‘And you’ll just talk to him?’

‘What else would I do?’

‘You’ve been known to do other things. Remember it was me who put you in touch with him. I’m vouching for you.’

‘Thanks, Karlsson. I’m really grateful. I wish there was something I could do back.’

‘That’s not how it’s meant to work. Just don’t do anything reckless. At least, not without telling me first.’

‘I’d better go,’ said Frieda. ‘I need to make some calls.’

Three hours later, Eva knocked on Frieda’s door. ‘A van’s arrived,’ she said. ‘A man says he’s here to see you. He sounds Polish.’

Frieda pulled her jacket on and stepped outside. ‘He’s a friend of mine,’ she said. ‘From Ukraine.’

‘Oh, no, before I forget, someone left you a letter.’

‘Here?’

‘Yes. It was on the doormat when I came in. Probably someone who’d heard on the grapevine that you were back.’

Eva held out an envelope and Frieda pushed it into her bag. She would read it later.

When she stepped out into the road, Josef’s head was hidden inside the open bonnet at the front of the van.

‘Is everything all right?’

Josef’s head appeared. He took a rag from his pocket and wiped oil from his hands. ‘Is hot. But is OK, will get us to your man.’

They got inside and the van started with what sounded like a long, spluttering chesty cough.

‘So where?’ said Josef.

‘I’ll guide you.’

‘You will not guide. You tell me address, I put in machine, we don’t think any more.’

‘It’s a town called Rushton. It should take about an hour.’

Frieda spelled the name and Josef tapped it into his satnav. ‘It is an hour and a quarter.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Is the little roads.’

‘Yes.’

‘But pretty.’

‘Some of them.’

Frieda looked out of the window. They were leaving Braxton and turning on to the bypass. The sea glinted in the distance.

‘This where you grow up?’ said Josef.

‘That’s right.’

‘Every tree is a memory?’

Frieda turned to Josef to see if he was joking but there was no sign of it on his face. ‘In a way,’ she said. ‘Josef, I know that when I say thank you, you’ll say that I don’t need to say it. But I do need to say it. Thank you.’

Now Josef did break into a smile. ‘Is too complicated for me.’

‘No, it isn’t. Your heart must have sunk when you heard me on the phone.’

Josef shook his head. ‘I was nearly ringing you.’

‘What …?’ Frieda began. ‘You’ve been talking to Karlsson.’

‘He says to check on you.’

‘Mad woman on the loose?’

‘No,’ Josef protested, in an aggrieved tone. ‘A friendly look-after.’

‘You know, Josef, when I think of you and me, I think of
you helping me when I’m in trouble and me almost getting you killed.’

‘And building you the new bath.’

‘Without me asking for it. But it’s a lovely bath,’ Frieda added hastily. ‘I’m just saying that friendship with me comes at a price.’

‘No, no,’ said Josef. ‘There are many of the people I work with. The builders and the plumbers. They are from Ukraine and Russia and Poland. They sleep in the hostels and in the van and in the sheds. Is different for me. Because of you, I have a home, friends.’

‘It’s different for me as well, Josef.’

The rest of the journey passed mostly in silence. That was good as well. With Josef there was no compulsion to talk where talk was necessary, none of that asking how you are, without really wanting to know, or really needing to know. She just stared out of the window. Josef had been right. The landscape almost spoke to her. That woodland where they used to be taken for walks on Sunday mornings. The rectory you could just see from the road where she had been for Virginia Clarke’s fourteenth birthday party. As they drove, the memories thinned out and the landscape grew less familiar, then not familiar at all.

They stopped once for petrol and Josef checked the engine again. ‘When you have your meeting, I will sort it,’ he said.

When Frieda had rung ahead to confirm the meeting, Helmsley had told her to come to the Duchess of York. It was in the main street of Rushton and, because it was lunchtime, the saloon bar was crowded. The room was decorated with aged photographs of solemn, moustached
men standing in front of horses and traction engines. In the far corner a man was sitting at a table alone, reading a newspaper. He was dressed in the grey suit and discreet tie that were the uniform of insurance salesmen and police detectives. When he saw Frieda standing in front of him, he folded his paper and stood up to greet her.

She tried to see something of the young officer she had met almost twenty-three years earlier. He was heavily built, jowly, with hair cut so short that it was really little more than a fuzz around the edges of his large head.

‘Dr Frieda Klein?’ She nodded and they shook hands. ‘Have you eaten?’

Frieda said she wasn’t hungry. She bought drinks for the two of them, a fruit juice for the detective and water for herself. ‘It’s good of you to see me,’ she said.

‘When a colleague gets in touch, we like to help. This DCI Karlsson, he’s a friend of yours?’

‘That’s right. Did he tell you what this is about?’

‘He left that up to you. He said you wanted some information.’

‘We’ve met before,’ said Frieda.

Until then Helmsley’s manner had been affable but now he looked apprehensive.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t recall …’

‘It was a long time ago. In February 1989, you were working in Braxton down in Suffolk.’