Thursday's Children: A Frieda Klein Novel (Frieda Klein 4)

by Nicci French

  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 w
anted 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.’

  ‘I remember him at least.’ Greg gave a small laugh.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was the blond, arrogant one?’

  ‘I suppose that describes him.’

  ‘The staff used to say he would become the leader of a cult.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘What did become of him?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. But you’re right, he liked power. Looking back, I can see how dysfunctional our group was. Did that occur to you at the time?’

  Greg shrugged. ‘You were kids,’ he said amiably.

  ‘Then there was Sarah May,’ said Frieda.

  She knew she wasn’t mistaken. She saw a tiny, almost lascivious smile on his face, followed instantly by wariness, a shutter coming down between them. So: something had happened between Greg Hollesley and Sarah May. Poor, innocent, dimple-cheeked, long-dead Sarah May.

  ‘I don’t remember her.’

  ‘Surely you must.’

  His voice had become softer, slower. ‘It was a very long time ago.’

  ‘She killed herself in the month that you left.’

  ‘That was Sarah May, was it? I remembered that something tragic happened but I forgot the name. Poor girl. A terrible waste of life.’

  ‘Was it ever discovered why?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But, then, I’m not the person to ask.’

  ‘You were her form tutor.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know why she killed herself. These things are often very mysterious. But you know that, in your line of work.’

  ‘Eva said it was exam stress.’

  ‘That’s always possible.’

  ‘Did you ever see her out of school?’ she asked.

  He stared at her. Neither of them dropped their eyes and a feeling of hostility gathered in the room, almost tangible.

  ‘No.’

  ‘She was just another student?’ She saw the knuckles on his hands whiten around the mug of untouched tea.

  ‘None of my students is ever “just another student”.’

  ‘Even at fifteen, she idolized you.’

  Frieda now saw a coldness in his expression.

  ‘I’m very sorry about what happened to her, but teenage girls often have crushes on their teachers.’

  Greg Hollesley stood up. The meeting was clearly over. She could see him wondering if he should hold out his hand, then deciding not to. Good. She put on her coat and buttoned it up.

  ‘I hope it won’t be another twenty-three years,’ said Greg, opening the door for her.

  ‘It won’t be.’

  ‘Take care, Frieda.’ He made it sound like a caress and a threat.

  24

  Reuben only cooked four or five dishes and he served them in rotation. Frieda had eaten them all, over and over again. There was chilli con carne, lasagne, baked potatoes with sour cream and grated cheese. And tonight it was pasta
with the pesto that he bought from the local deli. Frieda was only at Reuben’s house because he had blackmailed her. When she had said she couldn’t come, Reuben said, in that case, they would all come round to her house and bring the food and wine with them. ‘You know I’ll do it,’ Reuben said. Frieda did indeed know that Reuben would do it.

  So she sat at Reuben’s table and ate the pasta and drank the red wine and looked at the photos of the baby on Sasha’s phone and listened to Josef talking about the flat he was working on over in West Hampstead, and Reuben opened a second bottle of red wine, then a third. A phone rang and everyone looked around and she realized it was hers.

  ‘Sometimes I leave it on by mistake,’ she said. She took the phone out of her jacket pocket and saw Sandy’s name. ‘I’ll just switch it off.’

  ‘Answer it,’ said Reuben. ‘It’ll be good practice for you.’

  She walked away from the table and into Reuben’s living room. A window looked out on the unkempt back garden.

  ‘Is this a good time to talk?’

  ‘I’m at Reuben’s.’

  ‘With the gang?’

  ‘Why are you calling?’

  ‘It can’t end like this. You can’t just click your fingers and eject me from your life.’

  ‘I know that we need to talk, but not now.’

  ‘I’ve been going over and over everything. Was something going wrong that I wasn’t noticing? Was it something I did? Was I crowding you? Did you get scared of the intimacy?’

  ‘This isn’t the right time.’

  ‘It seems the right time to me. We’re actually speaking to each other at least. I’ve been trying to call you for days.’

  ‘We can’t do this over the phone.’

  Sandy started to say something angrily, and after a few seconds of hearing his bitter, recriminating words, Frieda took the phone away from her ear and ended the call. She found herself looking at an Escher print on Reuben’s wall. It was a drawing of an impossible building in which people who were walking upstairs found themselves going down and people going downstairs found themselves going up. She took a few moments to compose herself, then went back into the kitchen. She found them talking, but they were like bad actors pretending to be talking. Frieda sat down and picked up her wine glass. Josef looked at Sasha. Sasha looked at Reuben. Reuben gave a shrug.