Frankie (18 page)

But William didn't hear. He was already fast asleep.

Frankie spent as much of Christmas Day by June's bedside as visiting hours would allow. She seemed terribly weak: one side of her face had drooped and she had no control over it, which made her speech slurred and indistinct. Frankie did her best to be upbeat, telling her that the doctors were pleased with how she was getting on and
that she would be home before she knew it; but both women knew the road to recovery would be a long one.

It was New Year before June was allowed home. Frankie had kept the flower shop shut all that time, preferring to visit June in hospital whenever she could, even though it meant spending more time on the bus than actually by her bedside. But once she was back, she insisted that the shop be opened up. Frankie argued. ‘I need to be looking after you,' she complained. ‘In any case, I can't run the shop on my own. There's too much I don't know how to do.'

‘You'll be fine,' June replied, slowly and clumsily. It broke Frankie's heart to hear her speaking like that. ‘And so will I. I can rest up here, and if I need anything, I'll let you know. You can always pop up and ask me anything you need to know.'

And so, reluctantly, a few days into January Frankie opened up the shop by herself for the first time. It was strange not having June there to chat to, and she found herself feeling lonely again for the first time in weeks. The post-Christmas custom was slow, and she was thankful for the fact that there was so much else to do – stock-taking, ordering, tending the plants. It all went some way to keeping her mind off the fact that June wasn't there. And in the background she kept the radio on. It was a comforting sound – it reminded her of June, and of her mother before that.

Frankie was just about to shut up shop on that first day when the little bell rang to indicate the door was opening. She looked up to see a man walk in, but it wasn't until he had approached the counter that she recognized him as the one who had helped the night June had had
her stroke. He smiled at her. ‘Hello,' he said brightly. ‘I don't know if you remember me …'

‘Of course I remember you.' Frankie smiled at him. ‘Thank you for your help the other night.'

‘Is the lady OK?'

‘Fine, thanks,' Frankie informed him. ‘A bit weak, but the doctors think she'll make a full recovery over time.'

The man looked genuinely relieved. ‘And you didn't even get round to selling me that poinsettia.'

‘Did you find something for your mother in the end?'

The man looked momentarily confused before realizing what she was talking about. ‘No,' he said with a smile. ‘I just regaled her with the story of my heroic actions and she let me off the hook.'

Frankie laughed. She had not had the chance to look at him properly before, but now she did she saw how nice-looking he was. His face was boyish, his brown eyes wide and trusting. His hair was still tousled and he had a slightly apologetic smile that seemed to Frankie to speak volumes. ‘My name's Keith, by the way. Keith Osbourne.' He held out his hand. It was cold to the touch, but she suddenly felt a different kind of warmth as it enveloped hers.

‘I'm Frankie,' she said simply.

‘Frankie … ?' he asked.

‘Just Frankie.' She smiled at him again and withdrew her hand. As she did so, she saw him notice the scar across her palm. It had almost healed now, thanks to June's care and attention, but there would always be an angry red mark there. Keith's face was a little puzzled, and he seemed to be on the point of asking her about it, so she quickly put her hand behind her back and looked away. ‘We're closing in
a minute,' she said. ‘Did you want anything?' It sounded more unfriendly than she meant it to.

Keith glanced at her with a mixture of amusement and confusion. He turned round and picked the first bunch of flowers that came to hand – a bunch of forced tulips that had seen better days – and paid for them without speaking. Frankie blushed, feeling slightly ashamed of herself as he handed over his money. She smiled at him again, and he inclined his head lightly before leaving the shop.

Frankie was quiet that night, quieter than usual, not even apologizing for the food she cooked June. She wasn't much of a chef, and always found the need to comment on what had gone wrong with a meal before she served it. June would sit up in bed and tell her it was delicious, while Frankie sat on a chair by the bedside, a plate of food on her lap, keeping the older lady company as they ate. Tonight she hardly spoke, and although June eyed her questioningly, she knew better than to pry with Frankie. She was a closed book when she wanted to be. The meal passed silently, and once she had seen that June was comfortable, Frankie went to bed early.

That night, she dreamed again. The nightmares had become less frequent after she moved in with June, but since the stroke they had started again, as confused and as horrifying as ever. Every night she was revisited by Bob Strut; every night in her mind's eye the broken glass would be protruding from his neck, seeping blood that ran down his clothes. He would walk towards her, his face contorted into a warped grin; as he walked, he never seemed to get any nearer, and yet he seemed impossibly close – too close for Frankie to be able to get away. She
wanted to turn and run, but she knew there were policemen behind her. And then, just as her panic was becoming unbearable, his face would change. She would see her mother, her face swollen as it had been in the picture she had seen in the newspaper; she would see little Mary, her red hair straggling over her ghostly white face; she would see her stepfather, his flat eyes dead and his jaw set; and she would sometimes see June, one side of her face drooping horrifically, her body bent double, but those sharp eyes still appearing to see right through her …

And then she would wake up suddenly, nervous and sweating, wondering where she was. In the weeks since she had been with June, she still hadn't grown used to the sensation of waking up in a bed, of feeling clean cotton next to her skin. She would feel disorientated and perplexed for a few moments, before putting her head back down on the pillow and lying there in the darkness, listening to the silence. Darkness and silence: two things you never experienced when you were sleeping rough.

That night she lay awake until dawn, unable to shake off the uncomfortable feeling the dream had given her. Things always seemed worse at night – she couldn't help wondering what the hell she was doing there in June's flat. She was a street kid, nothing more; she didn't belong here. The police were bound to catch up with her sooner or later. Just because her face was no longer in the papers, it didn't mean nobody would ever recognize her. And when they did, when the police finally came knocking, she would lose all of this. When she had been on the streets, the relative security of a prison cell had not seemed so distressing; but now this little flat, with its warmth and
comfort, was the centre of her world. It would break her heart to leave it behind. And what would happen to poor June if she was discovered hiding a wanted criminal? So often Frankie had considered telling her everything, but deep down she knew she could never tell her anything about her past: if June remained in ignorance, she would be protected when the inevitable moment came.

As the blackness of the night turned to the cold grey of early morning, Frankie crept out of bed, pulled on some warm clothes and walked towards the kitchen. Passing June's room, she heard the soft sound of the radio, so she knocked quietly and put her head round the door. June was sitting up in bed, perfectly still, her head turned towards the curtains, a framed photograph in her hands. She didn't move as Frankie looked in, so the younger woman coughed gently. June turned to look at her and did her best to smile, but it turned to more of a grimace on her stroke-shocked face. ‘Good morning, dearie,' she said quietly. ‘How are you today?'

‘I'm fine, June.' Frankie was always struck by her ability to ask after the health of others when she was in this state. ‘And you?'

June gazed down at the photograph in her hand. ‘I was thinking about Madeline.'

She seldom spoke of her daughter. All Frankie knew was that she had died in a car crash when she was nineteen years of age. June's husband had passed away a year later, ostensibly from angina, although she insisted his heart was broken. ‘It would have been her birthday today,' she continued. ‘Her thirty-first.' She smiled sadly. ‘It's hard to think of her as a thirty-one-year-old. One of the advantages of dying young, I suppose.'

Frankie stepped in softly and went to sit at June's bedside. She gently rested one hand on hers, but said nothing. Words of comfort did not come easily to her. The girl in the picture was pretty, laughing at some long-forgotten joke with the photographer, and something about the eyes made it obvious that she was related to June.

‘You're like her in so many ways,' June told her. ‘She was impulsive, secretive. When I heard about the accident, I was devastated. Of course I was. But you know something? I wasn't surprised, Lord help me. Some people seem destined to come unstuck. Do you think that's a terrible thing for me to say about my own daughter?'

‘I don't know, June,' Frankie replied in all honesty, but June didn't seem to hear her.

‘She had been to a party with some friends. They said she hadn't had anything to drink, but who knows if that was the truth? On her way home a van driver ignored a red light and hit her from the side. She was killed instantly.' Tears started to fill her tired eyes. ‘A parent should never have to bury their own child – somehow it seems wrong that I'm here and she isn't. Not a day has gone by that I haven't wished I was in that car instead of her.' She looked straight at Frankie. ‘But I don't expect you to understand that, dearie.'

Frankie didn't know what to say. In a way it was true – self-preservation was the only thing that had mattered to her in all the years she was on the street. But as she sat there by June's bed, she remembered little Mary, wide-eyed and terrified, and what she had done to protect her; she looked at the older lady, and realized with a slightly uncomfortable sensation that the duty of care she felt towards her was stronger than she could have
previously thought possible. ‘I think I understand,' she said quietly.

June nodded. ‘Maybe you do at that,' she conceded. Then she looked directly into Frankie's eyes. ‘You can't run for your whole life, Frankie,' she said piercingly before looking back at the picture in her hand. ‘One of these days you just have to let yourself be happy. After all, you never know what could be just around the corner. And it would break my heart if you were to end up the same way as poor Madeline. Ah, but I'm embarrassing you.' She smiled again. ‘Do you know, I think I might like to come down and sit with you for a while today.'

‘I don't think that's a very good idea, June,' Frankie protested. ‘You need to rest a little longer.'

‘Ah well, it won't be for long. And I
will
be resting – just sitting there is all.' She smiled her half smile again. ‘Don't worry, dearie, I won't be getting in your way.' Her eyes twinkled, and Frankie knew she wouldn't be argued with.

She wouldn't have admitted it, but it was nice to have June back in the shop. As was so often the case, they spoke infrequently, but each took comfort in the other's silence, and June stayed there all day, a thick blanket on her legs and a battered paperback by her side, which she dipped into occasionally. There were few customers, and Frankie had her back turned when the door opened just before closing time. ‘Hello, Frankie,' a voice said behind her.

Frankie wasn't used to hearing her name on anyone's lips other than June's – and even she called her ‘dearie' more often than not. Her heart suddenly in her mouth, she spun round. ‘Keith!' she said with undisguised relief
when she saw him standing awkwardly at the counter. ‘You made me jump.'

‘I don't look that bad, do I?' He assumed a look of mock self-pity.

Frankie flashed him a smile. ‘What can I do for you this evening?'

Keith looked round the shop and saw June sitting there. ‘I'm glad to see you looking better,' he said politely. June looked bewildered. ‘I was here the night you fell ill,' he explained.

‘Ah!' June nodded her head. Frankie could have sworn there was a look of mischief in her eyes. ‘You must be the young man Frankie has told me so much about.'

Frankie blushed and shot June a meaningful glare which Keith did his best to pretend he hadn't noticed. ‘What's the most beautiful bunch of flowers you have?' he asked her, kindly changing the subject.

‘For your mother?' Frankie asked delicately.

‘No, actually. They're for someone I'm taking out to dinner tonight.'

It wasn't a response Frankie was expecting, and for some reason it flustered her slightly. Avoiding his eyes, she came out from behind the counter, took a large bunch of long-stemmed white lilies from a bucket, and arranged them with some glossy green foliage. ‘I think she'll like these,' she said.

‘Thank you,' Keith replied simply as she started wrapping them for him. He glanced over at June, who was watching him with an amused look in her eye, then handed some money over to Frankie, before taking his flowers and change. He looked straight into her eyes, then handed the lilies back to her.

Frankie felt a sudden urge to throw the flowers down and run into the back room, but something kept her there, her fists clutching the flowers tightly and her eyes betraying the worrying sensation she was feeling. ‘So
will
you?' Keith asked.

‘What?' She had no idea what he was talking about.

‘Have dinner with me.'

‘No.' She said the word hastily, too loudly, and instantly regretted it. ‘I mean, no, thank you. I'd love to, but I can't.' She looked over at June. ‘I can't leave June by –'