by Nicci French
Juliet moved aside and Frieda stepped over the threshold and into the hall, which was warm and smelt slightly stale. The tiles had been replaced with wooden boards, but the grandfather clock was still there, a crack running down its glass face. There were photographs – of David and Ivan and their families; of Juliet as a younger woman; none of Frieda or her father – on the walls. There was an unopened bottle of red wine in the middle of the floor that Juliet walked around as if it were a permanent fixture.
‘Is that my glove you’re holding?’ she asked.
‘I found it outside.’
‘I wondered where it was.’ She smiled. ‘What do you think? Do we hug each other and weep?’
‘Maybe not.’
‘That’s probably best. Would you like some coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘I can’t offer you anything else. I wasn’t expecting you. No freshly baked cake, I’m afraid.’
They went together into the kitchen. Frieda blinked. Nothing was the same. The old cooker was gone, and the wooden table, the dresser, the rocking chair. Now everything was stainless steel, state-of-the-art, spotlit, bare and gleamingly efficient, like a laboratory for cooking – except Juliet Klein had never liked cooking and wasn’t even very interested in food. Through the window, she saw the long garden. No swing, no plum tree, no bird table. Everything seemed straightened and neatened. The long washing line had been replaced with a circular device from which hung several pairs of socks and nothing else.
‘This is all new,’ she said, feeling her mother’s shrewd eyes on her.
‘Sorry. Did you want me to keep it the way it was?’
‘It was just an observation.’
Frieda looked at her as she made coffee. She was smaller than she remembered, but still very upright, as if standing to attention, and her dark hair was a peppery grey. Her face was pouchy and sallow; her clever brown eyes slightly hooded. She had toothpaste marks around her mouth and was only wearing one earring. The collar of her crisp white shirt was folded in on itself.
‘I don’t know if you take sugar or milk. Help yourself.’
‘Thank you.’ They took seats on opposite sides of the metal counter. ‘Are you still working?’
‘I retired three years ago.’ Juliet Klein took a small sip of coffee; a few drops rolled down her chin but she seemed not to notice.
‘You’re probably wondering why I’m here.’
‘You could say so, Frieda. I had made up my mind never to see you again. I certainly wasn’t going to come looking for you.’
‘I haven’t come to rake things over,’ said Frieda.
‘Why not? You’re a therapist, aren’t you? Why not rake things over? Isn’t that what you do?’
‘I wanted to ask you something.’
Juliet Klein folded her arms, then tapped one hand against her shoulder. She made a sudden violent grimace of disgust, as if she’d put something bitter into her mouth. It was an utterly unfamiliar expression, childish and slightly wild.
‘Yes?’
‘Are you all right?’
‘All right? Oh, yes. I’m fine. What do you want to ask?’
‘The night that I was raped …’
‘Oh, not that again.’
‘The night that I was raped, I was here. In my bedroom. Do you remember?’ Her mother didn’t reply, so Frieda continued. ‘I was supposed to be going to a concert but I had a row with Lewis. I came home, told you I wasn’t going out after all but wanted to be left alone, and then I went upstairs and climbed into bed.’
‘It’s more than twenty years ago. How would I remember?’
‘It’s the kind of thing mothers remember.’
‘You’ve suddenly come down from London, burst in here, for what? To say I wasn’t a good enough mother?’
‘This isn’t about you as a mother or me as a daughter. I want to clarify a few things.’
‘It’s a bit late for that.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that evening, trying to remember it. You were here too. Downstairs. I could hear the TV. Later, I came down and I told you. You remember that?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you didn’t believe me.’
‘We had this out twenty years ago.’
‘Twenty-three years ago. Someone managed to get into my room without anyone noticing them. You were downstairs. Is there nothing you saw or heard?’
‘The police asked me all of this.’
‘I know. But now I’m asking you.’
‘What are you trying to prove? Is this how you’ve spent your adult life, storing up grievances against me?’
‘It’s just a simple question.’
‘I have a simple answer. I don’t know. I didn’t believe anyone raped you, and the police agreed. I think you were an unhappy, angry teenager and you made up a story that got out of control. That’s why you ran away. What I don’t understand is why you’ve come back.’
’You didn’t go out at all, or fall asleep?’
‘You always blamed me for Jacob’s death. Is that what this is about?’
‘No.’ Freda thought, but didn’t say, that in fact she’d always blamed herself.
‘And for recovering from it.’
‘Did you recover?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. I’m not your patient.’
‘I think it was someone I knew.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The rapist. I think I must have known him. It wasn’t just opportunistic. It couldn’t have been. He knew where I was. He knew this house.’
Frieda looked at her mother’s grey, weary face.
‘Sometimes you just have to get on with life. That’s what I’ve been doing.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’m going out in a few minutes. With my bat group.’
‘Bat group?’
‘We look at bats. It’s like birdwatching. But with bats.’
‘I’ll be gone by then. There’s someone else I need to go and see.’
‘Are you married?’ Juliet asked abruptly.
‘No.’
‘No children?’
‘No. Can I look at my old room?’
‘It’s my study now. You know the way.’
It had been twenty-three years. Not a trace of Frieda remained. Just a long narrow room, whose window overlooked the garden. There was a flat roof underneath; perhaps someone could have used that. Or walked in through the door and up the stairs while her mother sat watching television. Standing by her bed. Looking down at her while she slept. She frowned and ran a finger along the windowsill, collecting a thick ridge of dust. The study didn’t feel used: it was too neat and the computer and Anglepoise lamp were unplugged. On the desk there was a large pile of letters addressed to her mother, some handwritten, others utility bills. None had been opened. Frieda leafed through them, looking at the postage dates. They went back over six months.
She went downstairs. Her mother was in the hall, tying a scarf over her hair, fumbling clumsily with the knot, a puckered look on her face. She glanced at Frieda and her eyes seemed to flicker.
‘How are you feeling?’ Frieda asked.
‘It’s a bit late to start sharing feelings.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘I am a doctor,’ said Juliet. ‘I don’t need to talk to another. If you count as a doctor.’
‘Doctors make the worst patients,’ said Frieda.
‘Have you got what you came for?’
‘Not really.’
‘You know what you can’t stand? You want to think you’re like your beloved father, but really you’re like me.’
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 wher
e 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.’
15
Frieda was relieved to be back in London, with tarmac and not mud underfoot, in a city where it was never dark and never quiet. But she wasn’t there for long. On Monday morning she rose early, had breakfast at the café her friends ran, Number 9, and walked to her consulting rooms. She saw two patients. The first was a middle-aged woman called Sarah-Jane whose youngest son had jumped off a tall building nine months ago; she no longer wanted to be alive but she had two other children so felt she had no right to die, or even to want to die. The other was a violently sarcastic young man who had recently been referred to her. After he left, even the air felt bruised.
Frieda drank a tall glass of water, then checked her messages. There was one from Sandy: ‘Hi, Frieda. Bobbie Coleman is free tomorrow at a quarter past eleven. Let me know if that’s fine.’
‘She sounds perfect,’ Frieda said, when she called him. ‘I’ll cancel my patients and go down there.’
There was also an email from Becky, saying that Maddie had been very angry after Frieda had left, but that she was still intending to go to the police; she just needed a few days to pluck up courage. And she asked Frieda for advice about a therapist she could see.
Frieda wrote back to her at once. She gave Becky three names, two women and a man (although she said a woman might be easier to talk to about rape), and their phone numbers. ‘Mention me,’ she wrote, ‘and tell them that I’m very happy to talk to them about your situation if that would be helpful. Remember, Becky,’ she went on. ‘You mustn’t see someone you would feel awkward with or don’t take to. It’s very important to be able to say no if necessary. These three people are good, but they might not be good for you. Call me if you need more advice, and do please let me know how things go.’
