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 had records of studying in London in the early sixties. Besides, Libby was aware that this woman may 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 colour-coded spreadsheet and a cricked neck from sitting slumped over her laptop screen, but 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-favourite café for breakfast. She’d promised Frank an update today on her search, 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 her. 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 email address and phone number. Libby stared at the poster, then reached into her bag for her phone and dialled 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 grey 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, which combined with her embarrassment to make her even hotter.
The bus moved slowly up Kentish Town Road and on to Highgate Road. At every stop Libby held her breath, hoping the man would get off, but he didn’t budge. Finally, the bus announcement signalled 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 a hundred metres 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 4 and 6. Frank had said he was number 22, 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.
There was 14 . . . 16 . . .
Libby was panting, sweat forming on her lip.
Now 18 . . . 20 . . .
Finally, there it was, Frank’s house. Libby turned in through his gate and hurried towards 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 realised 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 towards 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 backwards 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 realise 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 still 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 burnt 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 armour leaning up against a grandfather clock, 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.’ He 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 a small hand mirror, passing 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 on stage 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 towards the far wall. ‘This is what I really want to show you. My favourite 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 signalled Libby towards 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 only mentioned a daughter, but perhaps he had a grandson or a serial-killer nephew. Through the wall, Libby could hear sounds coming from what must be 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 on 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 cosy 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 towards 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, but 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.
‘Right, I’ll be Mum, shall I?’ Frank turned in his seat and picked up the teapot. As he started to pour, Libby saw that his hand was shaking, sending half the tea spilling onto the tray rather than in the cup. He seemed oblivious and carried on pouring. Libby glanced over at Dylan, who was watching Frank.
‘Need a hand with that, boss?’
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Frank said, and there was a firm edge to his voice. He carried on until all three cups had some tea in, although there was more on the tray than anywhere else. ‘Milk, Libby?’
‘Oh, no thanks,’ she said, not wanting to see that added to the mess.
Frank picked up a teacup, the china rattling as his hand shook. Libby held her breath as she watched his arm reach out towards her, but miraculously none of the hot tea spilled. She took the cup from him as quickly as she could.
‘Oh, silly me, I forgot the cake,’ Frank said.
‘I’ll get it,’ Dylan said, but Frank was already pushing himself up.
‘No, Dylan, you’re a guest now. Sit down and I’ll fetch it.’
Libby saw Dylan open his mouth to argue, but Frank had started to move. She watched as he made his way slowly towards the door, the only sound the shuffle of his feet on the carpet. Once he was gone, the silence in the room was deafening. Libby glanced at Dylan but he was staring at the floor, clearly finding this as agonising as she was. Her face felt hot again, and she closed her eyes, wishing Frank would hurry up.
‘I’m—’
‘I—’
They both spoke at the same time, a collision of sounds interrupting the quiet.
‘You go first,’ Dylan said, still studying the carpet.
‘I wanted to say. . .’ Damn, what did she want to say? Her mind was suddenly blank. ‘I wanted to say sorry about taking your photo on the bus. It was completely out of order.’
‘Ah. . . Well, I was going to say sorry for being such an arsehole. I’d had a crap morning and I was in a foul mood.’
Libby looked at him in astonishment; an apology was the last thing she was expecting. ‘You were pretty rude, as a matter of fact.’
‘I’d had a fight with my old man and I was in a right hump, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.’
‘OK. Well, I’m sorry, too.’
They both fell back into silence. Libby could hear sounds from the kitchen, the scraping of drawers being opened and the rattle of cutlery. She could see Dylan’s foot tapping on the floor.
‘So, you’re an artist, are you?’ he said, eventually.
‘Are you kidding me? You saw my drawing, I’m terrible.’
Dylan wrinkled his nose. ‘I wouldn’t say it was terrible . . .’
‘It was.’
‘You did make my hair look a little . . .’ He stopped, searching for the right word.
‘Like a child’s drawing?’ she offered.
‘I was going to say phallic.’
Libby let out a snort of surprise. ‘Phallic?’
‘Yeah. It looked like I had a load of knobs on my head.’
‘Oh my God!’ She buried her face in her hands. ‘No wonder you looked so horrified. I’m so sorry.’
‘Nah, that’s all right. But you did make me check my hair in the mirror when I got home.’
Libby looked at him through her fingers and thought she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
‘Well, you’ll be relieved to know I haven’t subjected anyone else to my terrible drawing since,’ she said. ‘My sketching days are well and truly over.’
‘Not because of—’ Dylan started, but at that moment Frank reappeared in the doorway.
‘Right, where were we?’ he said, as he carefully crossed the room. Libby realised he wasn’t carrying any cake, but Dylan didn’t say anything so neither did she. ‘Oh yes. Libby, you were going to update us on your efforts to find my girl on the bus. Have you tracked her down yet?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Libby said, and she watched his face fall. ‘I tried everything I could think of to trace her online: art colleges from the sixties, alumni groups on Facebook, records of London art exhibitions in that period, but nothing came up that could link me to a redhead. I’m afraid it was a bit like looking for a needle in a haystack.’
‘Oh . . . Well thank you for trying anyway,’ Frank said, and she could tell he was attempting to put on a bright voice.
‘But then I had another idea,’ Libby said. ‘It might be a terrible one, but I wanted to share it with you.’
‘Go on.’
‘So, this morning I was on Kentish Town Road and I saw a poster on a bus stop about a missing dog.’
‘Yes, I see posters like that all the time,’ Frank said. ‘There’s one particular cat round here that seems to go missing once a week. He’s called Houdini, and I’ve always wondered which came first, the name or the behaviour.’
‘Right. So I was wondering if . . .’ Libby faltered, acutely aware of Dylan staring at her with those dark, suspicious eyes. ‘It occurred to me that I could do something similar to the missing dog poster, but for your woman. So I could put posters up at bus stops along the 88 route with information about your story, in the hope that she might see one.’
‘Oh,’ Frank said, and Libby could tell he hadn’t been expecting that. ‘What do you think, Dylan?’
She watched Dylan take a deep breath and prepared herself for his inevitable derision. ‘I think it’s an interesting idea,’ he said, in a voice that suggested he thought it was anything but. ‘You just know my concerns, boss. The chances of your woman still being in London, let alone riding the 88, are pretty small. It seems like a hell of a lot of work for the tiny chance she might ride the bus, spot the poster and bother to read it.’
‘I agree,’ Libby said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. ‘But I had another idea, too. As well as putting an email and phone number on the poster, I could also put a hashtag on it, to encourage people to share photos of the poster on social media.’
‘I’m sorry but I have no idea what that means,’ Frank said.
‘A hashtag is a way of identifying certain words,’ Libby said. ‘So people can go on Twitter or Instagram and type in “hashtag missing dog” and then they’ll find all the messages ever tweeted saying hashtag missing dog.’
‘I see. So you’d put “hashtag missing dog” on this poster, and you think that might help find her?’
‘No, I’d find a different hashtag, just for you. But if we can encourage people to talk about your search on Twitter then there’s a much better chance of word spreading about it,’ Libby said. ‘And that way, I figure there’s a much greater chance of your woman finding out about it, too.’
For a few seconds no one said anything and Libby watched Frank to see how he’d respond. Then he beamed.
‘I think it’s a wonderful idea!’
‘Really?’
‘Yes! Even if she doesn’t see the poster herself, all it will take is for one person to mention it to their mother or grandmother, and it could be her.’ Frank’s eyes were bright. ‘Thank you, Libby, you’re a genius.’
‘You’re welcome,’ she said, smiling too.
‘This is so exciting! I can’t believe I never thought of doing something like this myself.’
‘So you’re gonna put posters up at every bus stop along the whole 88 bus route?’ Dylan said, in a tone that immediately killed the buzz in the room. ‘How long do you reckon that will take?’
‘I haven’t worked it out yet. A day or two?’
He made a scoffing noise. ‘And the rest!’
‘Well, maybe a week, then.’
‘That route must be nine miles in each direction with a hundred-odd stops. Plus, as soon as you put a poster up, someone’ll rip it down.’
‘So I’ll put posters up on every lamp post and shop window as well!’ Libby snapped. There was something in this man’s know-it-all tone that was really winding her up.
‘Dylan has a point, it is a lot of work for one person,’ Frank said. ‘I wish I could offer to help, but with these damn feet, it can take me an hour just to get off the bus.’
‘That’s all right, I’ll be fine on my own.’
Frank smiled as an idea occurred to him. ‘What about Dylan? You could help, couldn’t you?’
Libby saw her own horror reflected in Dylan’s face. ‘Oh, there’s no need,’ she said, quickly. ‘I’ll be fine doing it on my own.’
‘Nonsense! Dylan rides that 88 back and forth between his clients anyway, and as he’s just proven, he’s got lots of helpful input. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind giving Libby a hand, would you, Dylan?’
‘Eh, I dunno . . .’
‘And you’ve got a bit more spare time now Mrs Higgins has popped her clogs. This will be a good way of filling it.’
‘Really, I don’t need any help,’ Libby said.
‘If the two of you work together then the whole thing can be done in half the time.’
Libby didn’t say anything, and she could see Dylan searching for an excuse. Then his shoulders dropped an inch.
‘Fine, I’ll help her but only the once,’ he said, doing an excellent impression of a surly teenager.
‘Fantastic,’ Frank said, clapping his hands together. ‘Let the hunt for my girl begin!’