Waiting for Wednesday

FORTY

This time Frieda didn’t need to ring the doorbell. Lawrence Dawes was at the front of the house with another man. Dawes was up a stepladder and the other man was holding it. When Frieda announced herself, he looked round, smiled and descended the steps with care.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve forgotten the name.’

Frieda told him and he nodded in recognition. ‘I’m terrible with names. I do apologize. I remember you very clearly. This is my friend, Gerry. He helps me with my garden, I help him with his and then we have a drink to celebrate. And this woman is a psychiatrist, so be careful what you say.’

Gerry was a similar age to Dawes, but looked entirely different. He was dressed in checked shorts that reached his knees and a short-sleeved shirt that was also checked, but of a different kind, so that he almost shimmered. His legs and arms were thin, wiry and deeply tanned. He had a small grey moustache that was very slightly uneven.

‘You’re neighbours?’ said Frieda.

‘Almost,’ said Gerry. ‘We share the same river.’

‘Gerry’s a few houses upstream from me,’ said Dawes. ‘He can pollute my stream but I can’t pollute his.’

‘Cheeky sod,’ said Gerry.

‘We’ve been giving my roses some attention,’ said Dawes. ‘They’ve really started growing and we’re trying to train them. You know, roses round the door. Do you like roses?’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Frieda.

‘We were about to have some tea,’ said Dawes.

‘Were we?’ said Gerry.

‘We’re always about to have tea. We’ve either just had it or we’re about to have it, or both. Would you like to join us?’

‘Just for a few minutes,’ said Frieda. ‘I don’t want to keep you from your work.’

Dawes stowed his stepladder away – ‘Kids’ll nick anything that moves,’ he said – and they went through the house to the back lawn. Frieda sat on the bench and the two men came out, carrying mugs, a teapot, a jug of milk and a plate of chocolate biscuits. They laid them out on a small wooden table. Dawes poured the tea and handed a mug to Frieda.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said.

‘What?’ said Frieda.

‘You’re a psychiatrist.’

‘Well, a psychotherapist.’

‘Every time you come, I’m doing up the house. I’m digging the garden, I’m making the roses look nice. What you’re thinking is that I have this feeling that if I make my house nice enough my daughter will want to come back to it.’ He sipped his tea. ‘I suppose that’s one of the problems doing your job.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You can never just sit in a garden and have a nice cup of tea and a normal conversation. People think, Well, if I say this, she’ll think that, and if I say that, she’ll think this. It must be difficult for you to stop working.’

‘I wasn’t thinking anything like that. I really was just drinking the tea and wasn’t thinking about you at all.’

‘Oh, that’s nice,’ said Dawes. ‘So what were you thinking about?’

‘I was thinking about the little river at the bottom of your garden. I was wondering if I could hear it, but I can’t.’

‘When there’s been more rain, then you can hear it, even inside the house. Have a biscuit.’

He pushed the plate across to Frieda, who shook her head. ‘I’m fine.’

‘You don’t look fine,’ said Dawes. ‘You look like you need feeding up. What do you think, Gerry?’

‘Don’t let him tease you,’ said Gerry. ‘He’s like my old mother. Always wanting everyone to clear their plate.’

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Frieda thought she could just hear the soft murmur of the stream.

‘So what brings you here?’ asked Dawes, eventually. ‘Have you got another day off?’

‘I’m not exactly working at the moment. I’m taking some time off.’

Dawes poured some more tea and milk into her mug. ‘You know what I think?’ he said. ‘I think you’ve taken time off work because you’re supposed to be resting. And instead you’re chasing around.’

‘I’m a bit worried about your daughter,’ said Frieda. ‘Does that make sense to you?’

The smile faded from Dawes’s face. ‘I’ve been worried about her since she was born. I can remember the first time I saw her: she was lying in a cot next to my wife’s bed in the ward. I looked down at her and she had a little dimple in her chin, like me. Look.’ He touched the end of his chin. ‘And I said to her, or to myself, that I was going to protect her for ever. I was going to make sure that no harm ever came to her. And I failed. I suppose you never can protect a child like that, not once they get older. But I failed as badly as it’s possible to fail.’

Frieda looked at the two men. Gerry was staring into his tea. Maybe he’d never heard his friend talk so openly and emotionally before.

‘The reason I’m here,’ said Frieda, ‘is that I wanted to tell you what I’ve done. I’d hoped I could find your daughter but I haven’t got very far. I’ve heard from someone who knew her slightly.’

‘Who?’

‘A girl called Maria. I didn’t even meet her so it’s second-hand. But apparently she mentioned a man called Shane, who was some sort of friend of your daughter. Or, at least, he had some kind of connection with her. I don’t have a second name and I don’t know anything about him. I wondered if the name rang any bells with you.’

‘Shane?’ said Dawes. ‘Was he a boyfriend?’

‘I don’t know. I only have the name. He might have been a friend, or some sort of associate. Or it may all be a misunderstanding. This woman was quite vague, I think.’

Dawes shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t know anyone by that name. But as I told you when we met before, in the last years I didn’t know anything about my daughter’s friends. I think she lived in different worlds. The only names I have are of schoolfriends and she’d lost touch with all of them.’

‘Mr Dawes …’

‘Please, call me Larry.’

‘Larry, I was hoping you could give me the names of her friends. If I talked to them, I might be able to get some information.’

Dawes glanced at his friend. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’re a good person and I’m touched by anyone who cares about my daughter. God knows, most people have already forgotten her. But if you have suspicions, why don’t you go to the police?’

‘Because that’s all I’ve got: suspicions, feelings. I know people in the police and that won’t be enough for them.’

‘Yet you’ve come all the way down here twice, just because of your feelings.’

‘I know,’ said Frieda. ‘It sounds stupid, but I can’t stop myself.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Dawes. ‘I can’t help you.’

‘I’d just like some numbers.’

‘No. I’ve been through this too often. I spent months looking and worrying and getting false hope. If you get any real information, then just tell the police, or come and see me and I’ll do what I can. But I can’t stir it all up again – I just can’t.’

Frieda put her mug on the table and stood up. ‘I understand. It’s funny. It should be easy to find a missing person nowadays.’

‘Sometimes,’ said Dawes. ‘But if someone really wants to get lost, then they can stay lost.’

‘You’re right. Perhaps I was really coming to see you to say sorry.’

Dawes seemed puzzled. ‘Sorry? What for?’

‘Various things. I tried to look for your daughter and I haven’t succeeded. And I blundered into your personal grief. I’ve got a habit of doing that.’

‘Maybe that’s your job, Frieda.’

‘Yes, but they’re usually supposed to ask me before I do it.’

Dawes’s expression turned bleak. ‘You’re just realizing what I realized some time ago. You think you can protect people, care for them, but sometimes they just get away from you.’

Frieda looked at the two men, sitting there like a comfortable old couple. ‘And I interrupted your work as well,’ she said.

‘He needs interrupting,’ said Gerry, with a smile. ‘Otherwise he never stops with his gardening and his building and his mending and his painting.’

‘Thank you for the tea. It’s been nice, sitting in the garden with you both.’

‘Are you going to the station?’ asked Gerry.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m going that way so I’ll walk with you.’

Together they left the house. Gerry insisted on carrying Frieda’s bag, though she really didn’t want him to. He strode along beside her, in his mismatching, multicoloured checks, with his lopsided moustache, a woman’s leather bag slung incongruously from his shoulder, and for a few minutes they didn’t speak.

‘Do you have a garden?’ asked Gerry, eventually.

‘Not really. A bit of a yard.’

‘Soil’s the thing – getting your hands dirty. The pleasure of eating your own produce. Do you like broad beans?’

‘I do,’ said Frieda.

‘From the plant to the pan. Nothing like it. Lawrence gardens so he doesn’t have to brood.’

‘About his daughter, you mean?’

‘He doted on her.’

‘I’m sorry if I’ve stirred up painful memories.’

‘No. It’s not as if he ever forgets. He’s always waiting for her, and always wondering where he went wrong. But it’s better to be active. Digging and mending, sowing and picking.’

‘I understand.’

‘I suppose you do. But don’t go bringing hope into his life if it comes to nothing.’

‘I don’t mean to do that.’

‘Hope’s the thing that will destroy him. Remember that, and be a bit careful.’

On the train back, Frieda stared out of the window but saw nothing. She felt an ache of incompletion, of failure and, above all, of tiredness.

She made one last phone call. Then she would have done everything she could, she told herself, to rescue a girl she’d never met and to whom she had no connection, yet whose story had sunk its hooks into her mind.

‘Agnes?’ she said, when the woman answered. ‘This is Frieda Klein.’

‘You’ve found something?’

‘Nothing at all. I just wanted to ask you something.’

‘What?’

‘Apparently Lila knew a man called Shane. Does that ring a bell?’

‘Shane? No. I don’t think so. I met several of her new friends. Mostly at this grotty pub, the Anchor. They used to hang out there. Maybe there was someone called Shane but I don’t remember him. I don’t remember any of their names.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re not going to find her, are you?’

‘No. I don’t think I am.’

‘Poor Lila. I don’t know why you tried so hard. You tried harder than anyone who knew her. As if your life depended on it.’

Frieda was painfully struck by those last words. For a moment, she was silent. Then she said, ‘Shall we give it one last try? Together?’

Perhaps Chloë told you that I rang your house and spoke to her. She said you were OK. But she seemed a bit distracted. There were lots of noises going on in the background. You may not know that I also rang Reuben and he said that you were not OK. That everyone’s worried about you but that no one can really get through to you. What the fuck is going on, Frieda? Or shall I just fly over and hammer at your door until at last you have to answer me? Sandy