expectations.
Steve, the driver of the white van, walked past her car, sparing her only the briefest of glances. No doubt this morning’s performance would be added to the canon of her supposed misdemeanours. Only in this case she was more than a little guilty.
Freya bit her lip. Why had she ever thought coming back here was a good idea? Okay, so she’d thought her physical presence might deter her dad more effectively than the knowledge she was watching from a distance, but there was more to it than that.
So many complex reasons bound up together. The fact was, this whole approaching thirty thing had taken on a life of itself. It felt almost like a life crisis. At least it would if she didn’t hope to live considerably longer than sixty years.
Now she had something to prove—to herself if no one else. She would not run back to London like a dog with its tail between its legs simply because other people didn’t like her. Been there, done that, had the battle scars to prove it.
But being back in Fellingham did make her feel as judged as before. And after twelve years she honestly hadn’t expected it to feel like that. She could feel everything unravelling. All her hard-won peace of mind.
Statements like It’s so important to feel no residual anger towards anyone or anything no longer seemed to make sense. What did it mean when you actually unpicked it?
She was angry—really angry. How about One’s past must not be allowed to determine one’s future? Wasn’t that what her therapist had said?
It was all total rubbish. Freya turned the key in the ignition. Clearly Dr Stefanie Coxan had no first-hand knowledge of what it was like to live in a gossipy little place like Fellingham.
Of course one’s past shaped one’s future. Even if you managed to draw a black line under the grotty bits, pieces of it still steeped through and stained whatever came after.
She reversed out into the narrow country lane and, without stopping to analyse why, turned her car towards Kilbury. Post-war bungalows still lined the entrance to the village, followed by a rash of 1930s semis, many carefully extended beyond recognition.
She took the left-hand turn towards Church Lane, the second right into Wood End Road, and bit down a wave of pure loathing as Kilbury Comprehensive School appeared from behind a row of Leylandi.
Squat. Ugly. Built of breeze blocks some time in the 1970s, when it had seemed a good idea to make everything square and functional. She slowed her car down to a stop as large droplets of rain spotted the windscreen.
There’d been nowhere on earth she’d been more unhappy. Nothing to do with the school, of course. Now, with hindsight, she could see that. Everything that had tortured her had been from within. But at the time it had been just another thing to kick against. Something else to resent.
Freya glanced down at her watch and restarted the engine. There was no point in sitting here remembering how unhappy she’d been. If she’d hoped seeing it again would lay some ghosts to rest she’d been kidding herself. If anything it felt as if she’d stirred a few up.
Freya turned the car round in a lay-by and headed back along the main road towards Fellingham. She set her windscreen wipers going and flicked on her headlights to compensate for the overall gloom.
It was strange to be driving along this road. It was all so familiar, and yet not. The red telephone box had been replaced by one of those see-through boxes. The pub at the end of the lane had changed from the Pheasant to the Plough.
But most things were the same.
Presumably the school bus still took this route. Still left at 7:25 a.m. from the bus stop opposite the garage, still took a lengthy detour through Westbury and Levingham before looping round to Kilbury.
She slowed at the crossroads and glanced over at the brick-built bus shelter which had been her escape route. It hadn’t taken too much ingenuity to slip out through the changing rooms, cross behind the bike sheds and then walk down the main road to this bus stop. From there it had been a twenty-minute ride into Olban and all the diversions of a big town.
And it seemed times hadn’t changed much. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a teenage girl in school uniform, turning away from the wind to light a cigarette.
As she pulled away from Pelham Forest it crossed her mind to wonder whether she should have stopped. But then what would she have done? Or said?
You couldn’t just pick up stray adolescents. There were laws against that type of thing. And if that girl was anything like she’d been at the same age she’d have given her a mouthful for interfering in what didn’t concern her.
But…
Freya glanced in her rearview mirror, softly biting her lip. Maybe she ought to ring the school? She debated with herself for all of thirty seconds. She couldn’t do it. It would feel like a betrayal. Honour among thieves, and all that.
From the distance she heard the slow rumble of thunder. Moments later there was a crack of lightning.
Freya glanced again in her rearview mirror but she’d driven on too far to be able to see what the teenager’s reaction to the storm was. It was one hell of a day to have picked to bunk off school.
It was all too easy for her to imagine how that girl must be feeling. And how cold. Freya swore softly and steeled herself to go back and check the teenager was at least okay.
At the next junction she performed an illegal U-turn and drove back up the other way. It was one thing not to want to deliberately get someone into trouble, quite another to drive off leaving them wet and miserable.
The light from her headlights picked up the rain, now coming down like stair-rods. Despite it, the girl stepped straight out and lifted her thumb—which certainly made it all much easier. Freya gave quiet thanks that she didn’t have to get out of the car. She slowed and came to a stop.
‘You in trouble?’ she asked, opening the window with the push of a button.
‘The bus is late and I’ve got an appointment in Olban.’ The girl took a drag on her cigarette. ‘Are you going that way? I could use a lift.’
Rain slipped in through the opened window, darkening the suede of Freya’s jacket. One glance at the teenager showed she was faring much worse. Her khaki coat was sodden, and her hair, dragged back in a tight ponytail, hung limply down the back of her neck.
‘What time’s your appointment?’ Freya asked, mentally reviewing her options. Now she was here she wasn’t at all sure what she was going to do.
‘Twelve-fifteen. I’m meeting my mum at McDonalds.’
And she believed that just about as much as she wanted a hole in the head. ‘Can I ring her? To check she doesn’t mind me giving you a lift?’
‘She won’t mind.’
‘I’d like to ring her anyway.’
‘My phone’s died,’ she said, with a jut to her chin, then brushed a long strand of sodden hair off her cheek.
‘We can use mine.’
‘I can’t remember her number.’
Freya’s
