Thursday's Children (16 page)

‘I remember some of what we saw in each other when
we were
fourteen
,’ said Frieda. ‘But things change. I’m asking for your help now. If you can’t do that, then just say so.’

Jeremy drained the last of his wine. He took a twenty-pound note and coiled it slightly so that it could fit into the glass. ‘I need to think about this,’ he said.

‘What’s there to think about?’

‘I need some time. You’ll have to come to the house. I’ll phone you.’

His expression had changed. Frieda had a sudden sense of what he must be like in the office. It was clear that the meeting was over.

Frieda sat by her fire, the cat curled at her feet. She was thinking about Jeremy, his oversized head and his expensive suit. She tried to connect them with the boy she’d known and – yes – loved in a way, although it seemed impossible to imagine that now. It was a distant, tarnished dream. Jeremy had told her he had never felt so intensely about anyone since, but that was because they had been each other’s first love. He was nostalgic for the fresh wonder of the time. Sitting in some high-up office, at a desk that was probably as shiny and large as a grand piano, he was remembering his fifteen-year-old self with yearning. But even when she’d looked into his eyes this evening, she hadn’t seen that boy. Where had he gone?

She stared into the flames until at last what she was seeing wasn’t flames, but faces. Their faces, twenty-three, twenty-four years ago. They were all sitting in a circle on the wide swathe of grass by the river in Braxton and it was spring. Frieda remembered the stencilled shadows of leaves on the ground, the warmth in the air, the sound of the river as it eddied past. She could almost feel her own body as she sat, cross-legged, barefooted, her hair loose about her face. Yes.

Opposite her was Chas Latimer, with his long fair hair and his pale blue eyes with their uncannily small pupils that gave him the look of some kind of animal. A predator. He
had a joint in his hand and was smoking it solemnly, as if they were involved in a religious ritual and he was the high priest, before passing it to the person on his left. Who was that? Yes, Vanessa Bussock, now Vanessa Shaw, of course. Her shining brown hair fell in a curtain over half of her face; she was wearing tight shorts. She took the joint nervously, not really knowing how to do it but not daring to say no, trying to imitate the way Chas held it and cupped it; coughing, gulping the smoke into her mouth and holding it there, not inhaling, passing it on, too quickly, to Ewan who sat beside her. Ewan made everything all right by laughing at his own clumsiness and his unabashed greed for experience. He didn’t mind looking foolish, the way he spluttered, couldn’t manage cool. He turned and smiled at Frieda, who was sitting beside him; an eager, boyish smile. She shook her head. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to smoke, more that she hated the way they were all supposed to join in and would feel embarrassed to refuse. She met Chas Latimer’s mocking blue gaze, held it until he shrugged and dropped his eyes.

Jeremy was next to Frieda. She could feel his body heat, feel his eyes on her. He smoked with practised ease. He was not part of the group, only there because of her, but was definitely one of the cool ones: thin, handsome, grungy, confident. His hand, the one that wasn’t holding the joint, slid across hers. Who was next? Yes, Eva. The sun had brought out her freckles, and her red hair gleamed. Everyone liked Eva, the tomboy. There was something innocent about her that made her infinitely sympathetic. Everyone used to think that she and Ewan would get together: they had seemed so well suited.

Someone was next to Eva, taking the joint with a faint lift of her eyebrows, as if to say, Oh, well, why not? Who? Frieda frowned into her past, trying to see. Maddie? No, Maddie had never been one of their crowd. A girl with dark curly hair, rather shy but with a wide smile that brought dimples to her cheeks. Sarah May: the name dropped suddenly into Frieda’s mind. Of course. How could she have forgotten her? Brilliant at languages. She liked horses, too, as Frieda had, so long ago. They had ridden together a couple of times, in the meadows. She had a little flash of memory: riding through a bluebell wood in spring, Sarah May beside her on a shaggy, short-legged piebald.

On an impulse, Frieda pulled out her phone and rang Eva. When she answered her voice was slurred. She sounded drunk, but cheerfully drunk.

‘What happened to Sarah May?’

Frieda immediately felt Eva’s mood change.

‘Didn’t you know? Didn’t you ever hear? She died.’

‘I never heard,’ said Frieda.

‘It was horrible, just horrible. So young.’

‘How young?’

‘Just eighteen.’

‘How did she die?’

‘That was what was so terrible, Frieda. She killed herself.’

‘Why?’

‘Nobody knew. Nobody had any idea she was depressed. She must have been, though.’

‘How did she do it?’

‘She hanged herself.’ Like my father, thought Frieda. And like Becky was supposed to have done. ‘Just before her A
levels. People thought that must have had something to do with it. It was completely senseless.’

‘Yes.’

‘I was quite close to her, after you left. She was your replacement in a way. But I had no idea. I’ve often thought about what I could have done.’

‘People always feel like that when someone kills themself. They look back and try to see how they could have prevented it. Usually they couldn’t have done, but that’s no comfort.’

‘The school has a prize in her name: the Sarah May Prize for Languages. Vanessa and Ewan’s Amelia won it last year. It made me feel so strange when I went there, to see the Sarah May Prize on their mantelpiece.’

Someone was ringing the bell. Frieda left the fire, still holding the phone to her ear, and went to the door. Jack and Chloë were standing outside, arm in arm, and on their faces almost identical grins of embarrassed hopefulness. Chloë had shaved one side of her head, she noticed, and Jack’s hair was in an exaggerated quiff. He looked like a nervous cockatoo. Frieda gestured them inside.

‘Are her parents still in the area?’ she asked Eva, shutting the door, noticing that Chloë didn’t wipe her muddy shoes on the doormat and let her coat slide on to the floor. She never saw the mess she created.

‘She only had a father. Her mum died when she was eleven – do you remember?’

‘That’s right,’ said Frieda, slowly, walking into the living room after Chloë and Jack. ‘It’s coming back to me.’

‘I think he went to pieces after. His wife and then his daughter. Last I heard, he’s in that home near the sea.
Something-view. He was much older than other parents, almost like a grandfather, so he must be ancient now.’

‘What’s coming back to you?’ asked Chloë, brightly, when Frieda ended the call. She looked hectic with nervous excitement and clung to Jack as if she couldn’t stand upright without his support.

‘The past.’ Frieda looked into the flames. ‘The past is coming back.’

The next day was more than usually filled with patients, several of whom she had moved forward because of her days spent in Braxton. Her last two were Jane, the middle-aged mother whose son had killed himself, and then Joe Franklin. Over the years, Frieda had become very attuned to Joe. He had only to walk through the door and she could sense his mood. Sometimes he seemed heavy, his shoulders stooped, his eyes cast down, and at others he stepped lightly, looked directly at her with an open countenance. She noticed how his laces were tied, his buttons done up, his hair brushed, whether his clothes were dirty or clean. Often, sitting opposite her, he was silent, and Frieda attended to the silence. There were days when it was sore and full of a despair that pressed down on them both, and others when it was pensive, even restful. Today he was calm and weary. He was a battleground for the depression that raged through him, retreating, then gathering force again.

Joe left at four, and Frieda waited only a few minutes before leaving too. She would write up his notes later in the evening. She walked rapidly to Holborn Underground station, then took the train to Bethnal Green. Perhaps he wouldn’t be there.

She had Googled Greg Hollesley the evening before and found that he was now the head of a secondary school midway between Bethnal Green and Mile End. It was a large school in a poor catchment area and had a troubled past. But, she read, the new and dynamic head seemed to have turned it around. She skimmed through articles that mentioned or quoted him and looked at recent photographs of him: standing on a podium at some conference; posing with his students on A-level results day, with a smile on his undeniably handsome face. He was only a decade older than she was, and looked youthful and vigorous.

Greg Hollesley: history teacher, her form tutor during that last year, the school heartthrob. His name had been carved into a hundred desks and tables with the points of compasses by smitten schoolgirls. The boys liked him, too, because he didn’t seem to care what the pupils thought of him; he was athletic, funny. Frieda remembered him now, standing at the front of the class, or sitting on the table with one leg swinging, somehow managing to be both relaxed and theatrical. He always wore suits with open-necked shirts or T-shirts underneath, soft leather shoes and a leather band on his wrist. He had thick, dark, collar-length hair and his cheeks were stubbly. He came from Dublin, and the way he softly rolled his words gave him an extra touch of glamour; his voice remained soft even when he was angry, which made him more intimidating. The number of students taking history had soared during his time at the school.

As she walked towards his school, Frieda tried to recall the time she had last seen him but she couldn’t. She had a faint, perhaps false, memory of his smell of smoke and
spice, and of the way he had laid his hand on her shoulder after her father had killed himself. He had said that if she ever wanted to talk, he was there. But she hadn’t wanted to talk – and certainly not to Greg Hollesley, with whom all her friends wanted to claim some kind of special relationship. The school was a neo-brutalist edifice that looked like a small town. Most of the students had gone home, though some still loitered in the playground and clusters stood at the gates, talking and smoking. A receptionist buzzed Frieda through and she asked if Greg Hollesley was available to talk to.

‘Is he expecting you?’

‘Could you tell him that Frieda Klein is here and would like to see him for a few minutes? Frieda Klein from Braxton,’ she added. But perhaps he wouldn’t remember her, even so.

The woman pointed a finger at a chair a few yards away. Frieda didn’t sit down. She looked at the artwork that had been put up in the entrance lobby, and the security notices, and nodded through the window at a very fat boy standing on the other side of the glass.

‘Mr Hollesley can see you,’ the receptionist said. She sounded disappointed. ‘Come this way, please.’

Together they went through double doors and down a corridor. The air smelt faintly of stale sweat. At a green door, she knocked.

‘Enter,’ called a voice.

And there, after twenty-three years, was Greg Hollesley, sitting at a cluttered desk in a large, well-heated room, smiling in welcome. The past and present slid together; he
seemed to have barely changed. Jeremy Sutton had got bald and large; Lewis had become gaunt and raddled; but Greg Hollesley had remained slim, dark-haired, white-toothed, handsome. Frieda took in his grey-green suit, the wedding ring on his left hand, the framed photograph of two small boys on the shelf behind him, the flecks of silver in his hair and stubble.

‘Hello,’ she said, advancing.

He stood up in one supple movement and held out both hands. ‘Frieda Klein,’ he said, in a familiar smooth tone. Everyone, thought Frieda, seemed to call her by her full name when they saw her again for the first time – as if that made her return more momentous. ‘Who would have thought it? Dr Frieda Klein.’

‘Thanks for seeing me, Greg.’ It was absurdly difficult to call him that. At Braxton he had always been ‘Mr Hollesley’.

‘I was hardly going to turn you away. Here.’ He came round from behind his desk. ‘Let’s sit down, shall we?’ He gestured at the two armchairs. ‘Let’s have tea.’ He pressed a button on the phone on his desk and said, ‘Dawn? Can we have two teas? In mugs, not cups. Thank you. And some biscuits?’ He smiled across at Frieda.

Frieda took off her coat and they sat in the chairs, facing each other. Their knees were almost touching.

‘How long has it been?’ he asked.

‘Nearly twenty-three years.’

‘Twenty-three years,’ he repeated. ‘Well, time’s a funny thing. Does it feel longer or shorter than that?’ He wasn’t asking her but himself, with a frown that left two vertical grooves above his nose. He looked at her and gave his
famous smile. ‘A lot has happened to both of us in that time, Frieda. I remember you very well, you know. And I’ve seen your name since, of course.’

‘I probably remember you better.’

‘You’d be surprised. You and your friend with the red hair. I can see you now. You were quite scary, you know.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Clever and gorgeous.’

Frieda fixed him with a cool stare. She was irritated by people who knew they were charming. ‘A teenager and troubled,’ she rejoined.

‘Of course. Your father. That was tragic.’

The door opened and a very tall, very thin woman came in with a tray that she put on the low table.

‘Two teas,’ she said. ‘And your favourite biscuits, Mr Hollesley.’

‘When did you leave Braxton?’ asked Frieda, when the door had closed again.

‘July 1991. I took up the deputy-headship at a school in Cambridgeshire, then was head of a middle school and then came here. But that’s not why you’ve come to see me.’

‘No.’ She had been thinking of what to say. ‘You’re right. I didn’t just pop in after twenty-three years to catch up.’

‘Nice as that would have been.’ He picked up his mug but didn’t drink from it. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I left Braxton rather suddenly.’

‘I remember.’

‘I’ve been back recently and I’m trying to clarify memories. For my own peace of mind as much as anything,’ she added. ‘Do you ever go back there?’

‘I do. My father’s in a home nearby so I’m actually there a fair bit.’

‘It’s a strange experience, returning after all this time. I’ve met people I used to know and I’m trying to piece things together. Particularly round the time I decided to leave.’

‘I don’t see what I can do, Frieda, though I perfectly understand your wish to come to terms with your past.’

‘I had a group of friends that I entirely lost touch with. Do you remember any of them? You’ve already mentioned Eva – the red-headed one. Then there’s Lewis Temple, Ewan Shaw, Vanessa Bussock, Chas Latimer.’