14
When Becky opened her front door she gave a look of surprise that was almost comical.
‘Have you come all the way here to check up on me?’ she said.
‘I come from here, remember?’ said Frieda.
‘But I thought you hated this area with a passion.’
‘I’m just visiting. I’m showing a friend where I grew up. And while I was here I wanted to see how you were. I really expected to see your mother. I thought you’d be out with friends.’
‘What you mean is that I should be out with friends.’
‘I just wanted to say hello.’
Becky thought for a moment. ‘Shall I make you a cup of tea or coffee?’
Frieda smiled and shook her head. ‘I’ll be five minutes and then I’ll go.’
Becky led Frieda through the tiled hallway to a rustic kitchen with copper pans hanging from a rail above an Aga. ‘Let’s go into the garden,’ she said. ‘It feels easier to talk out there.’
At the back of the old Georgian terraced house there was a large walled garden, and behind the far wall, a wood rose away so that the house felt overshadowed. The beds were raked, the bushes pruned, everything stripped down and bare for the winter. Becky gestured vaguely around. ‘If Mum was here, she’d tell you what all these bushes and trees are. She finds that sort of stuff interesting.’
Frieda looked at her. The girl was still pale, dark around the eyes, but there was more of a spark about her. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.
For the first time, Becky looked her full in the face. ‘It sounds strange, but I’m a bit better.’
‘I was going to say that you looked better. Except that I find it can be irritating when people say it to me.’
‘Why would they say it to you?’ said Becky.
‘We all go through difficult times.’
‘And why does it irritate you?’
‘You’re good at asking questions.’
‘And you’re really good at avoiding answering them.’
‘You’re right,’ Frieda said. ‘I think it’s irritating when people pretend to know more about how you’re feeling than you do yourself. And sometimes when people tell you that you’re looking fine it’s because they’re not looking hard enough.’
‘Well, I’m not fine, but I’m better than I was.’
‘The fact that you can even say that is encouraging.’
‘And there’s one thing more. Well, two things. Even though I’m feeling a bit better, I’m going to talk to someone about this.’
‘That’s good.’
Now Becky paused, pushing her hands into the pockets of her jeans. Suddenly she looked hunched up, as if she were protecting herself against something. When she spoke it was in little more than a murmur. Frieda had to lean forward to make out what she was saying.
‘I’ve been thinking of going to the police. What do you think about that?’
‘Have you told your mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did she say?’
Becky pulled a face. ‘She didn’t seem to like the idea. But I want to know what you think.’
Now it was Frieda’s turn to hesitate. ‘I don’t like giving advice.’
‘I thought that was what you did for a living.’
‘No. I try to help people be clearer about what they want. Look, Becky, I’m not going to lie. If you go to the police, things won’t be easy. It’s too late for any physical evidence. I’m not sure how much they’ll be able to do. But the fact you’re thinking of doing that is a positive sign. It shows you’re taking control.’
Suddenly Becky gave a shiver, as if a cloud had covered the sun. Looking at her, Frieda almost felt cold herself.
‘Taking control?’ Becky said. ‘That’s the problem. I keep getting these thoughts, of him and me. I don’t even want to say the words. You can’t imagine what it’s like.’
Frieda looked hard at Becky and thought, Would it be of any possible help to her to say, ‘Yes, I can imagine what it’s like’? No, she decided. It wouldn’t be right. But it made it even clearer why Becky would have to find someone else to talk to about this.
‘I’m proud of you,’ Frieda said. ‘Remember that you’ve got my number. You can ring me any time, if there’s a problem. But let me know how things are with you.’
The two of them walked back into the house and Frieda heard the front door closing, a clink of bags and a bunch of keys being put down. Maddie came into the kitchen and saw her. She was still wearing her fawn overcoat. Her expression changed to surprise, then from surprise to anger. ‘What are you doing here?’ she said.
‘I was in the area,’ said Frieda. ‘I dropped in to see how Becky was.’
‘What are you playing at?’
‘Mum –’ Becky began.
‘Leave this to me.’ She jabbed her finger towards Frieda. ‘I don’t know what you’ve been saying to my daughter and I don’t want to know. But I came to you for help and all you’ve done is fill her head with strange ideas and, frankly, stir up her hysteria rather than cure it.’
‘I wasn’t here to tell Becky anything,’ said Frieda.
‘Really?’ said Maddie, her voice becoming louder. ‘You just happened to pop by? I come and see you and ask you for help and you tell me that you haven’t been home for twenty years. And the next time I see you, you’re in my kitchen. What a coincidence.’
‘I’m sorry you feel that,’ said Frieda. ‘I was just leaving.’
‘Don’t let me stop you.’
Frieda nodded a goodbye to Becky and walked out of the kitchen towards the front door. Maddie was behind her, still talking, and Frieda felt as if she was being washed out of the house by a strong current. As she stepped back out on to the pavement, she heard the front door slam behind her.
She had arranged to meet Sandy in the large old church that was in a square behind the high street. He had found a little local guidebook in a newsagent’s. ‘It’s got a very old font,’ he’d said. ‘Thirteenth century. And a famous rood screen. Whatever that is.’
Frieda walked back towards the church, replaying the scene with Maddie in her head. She thought of Maddie as she had seen her in London – pleading, affectionate – and the angry woman she’d just left. She was so distracted by these thoughts that when someone spoke to her she didn’t respond at first. But then she heard the voice again, saying her name. She looked around. A woman was standing beside her. She was in her late thirties, with pale freckled skin and striking red hair tied up in a messy bun. She was dressed in a long brown skirt, slightly ripped at the hem, sturdy walking boots and a large scarf draped around her like a blanket.
‘Aren’t you Frieda?’ the woman said again. ‘Frieda Klein?’
Frieda nodded but couldn’t think of what to say.
‘My God. Frieda! I can’t believe you’re here. Have I changed that much? I’m Eva. Eva Hubbard.’
And then Frieda looked at the woman: the wrinkles smoothed from around her eyes and mouth, her figure became slighter, her red hair shorter and spikier, and then she recognized her old school friend. Eva stepped forward, threw her arms around Frieda and hugged her.
‘I can’t believe this,’ said Eva. ‘For years I thought you’d vanished off the face of the Earth completely. And then I read some things in the paper about you, really amazing things.’
Frieda thought about those things: violent deaths, accusations of professional incompetence, kidnappings. ‘You shouldn’t really pay attention to what you read in the newspapers.’
‘Even if one tenth of it is true, then it’s pretty amazing. What are you doing here? Have you moved back?’
Frieda found it oddly difficult to answer. What, really, was she doing down here? ‘I came to see my mother.’
‘I thought you’d lost touch.’
‘We had.’
‘If you’re here, why don’t you come over to my place? There’s so much to catch up on. I could give you dinner.’
‘That would have been lovely,’ Frieda said, ‘but I’m literally just setting off back to London. Some other time.’
‘Definitely. I’ve got a card.’ She fumbled in her purse and took out a card that she handed to Frieda.
Frieda looked down at it. ‘Eva Hubbard. Fifty Shades of Glaze. Pots and Pottery Classes’. ‘You’re a potter,’ said Frieda.
‘For my sins. But the next time you come down, you must absolutely come and see me. Promise?’
‘Yes, I promise.’
‘Lewis,’ said Eva.
‘What?’
‘I remember you and Lewis.’
‘I’ve got to go.’
When she met Sandy he was standing outside one of the church doors, looking up at a relief sculpture of a sheep over the archway.
‘I like this,’ he said. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure why the rood screen was so famous. But this sheep I like. I’ve read about it in the guidebook. It’s not so much the Lamb of God. It’s the wool from the sheep that earned the money to pay for the church. But enough of that. How did it go?’
‘We can talk in the car. I’m done here. But I need your help.’