Waiting for Wednesday

wondering
if men reacted to absence differently from women. The contrast with Fearby’s house
was sharp. Here, it was tidy, clean and well organized where Fearby’s house was
dirty and neglected. But there was something they had in common. Frieda thought that a
woman would perhaps have turned the home into some sort of shrine to the missing person
but Fearby and Dawes were the opposite. Their very different spaces were both like
highly organized ways of keeping all those terrible thoughts and feelings of loss at
bay. Fearby had filled his house with other missing faces. And this house? It seemed
like a house where a man lived alone and had always lived alone. Even doing the
washing-up, she felt like a female intruder.
    She wiped her hands on a tea-towel, neatly
hanging on its own hook, then stepped outside to join the men. They turned at the same
moment and gave a smile of recognition, as though in the few minutes she had been away,
they had bonded.
    ‘We’ve been comparing
notes,’ said Fearby.
    ‘It feels like we’ve been doing
the same sort of godforsaken work,’ said Dawes.
    ‘But you were a salesman, not a
journalist,’ said Frieda.
    Dawes smiled. ‘Still too much time on
the road.’
    ‘I suppose you got out just in
time?’ said Fearby.
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Do offices have photocopiers any
more?’
    ‘They certainly do,’ said
Dawes.
    ‘I thought they’d gone
paperless.’
    ‘That’s a myth. They use more
than ever. No, Copycon are going strong. At least, my pension still arrives every
month.’ He smiled but then seemed to correct himself. ‘Is there anything I
can do for you?’
    ‘No. I don’t think
so.’
    ‘Tell me something, do you think my
daughter is alive?’
    ‘We don’t know,’ said
Frieda, softly.
    ‘It’s the not knowing
that’s hard,’ said Dawes.
    ‘I’m sorry. I keep coming around
and stirring up old feelings and it’s not as if I’ve got much to
report.’
    ‘No,’ said Dawes.
‘I’m grateful anyone’s trying to do anything for my daughter.
You’re welcome here whenever you want to come.’
    After a few more exchanges, Frieda and
Fearby were back out on the street.
    ‘Poor man,’ said Frieda.
    ‘You came back out just in time,
though. Dawes was just explaining in unnecessary detail how he and his neighbour were
building a new wall.’
    Frieda smiled. ‘Speak of the
devil,’ she said, pointing. And there was Gerry, walking down the road, clasping
two enormous bags of compost that almost obscured him. Frieda saw that one bag was
leaking, leaving a thick brown trail in his wake.
    ‘Hello, Gerry.’
    He stopped, put the bags down, wiped a grimy
hand across his forehead. His moustache was still uneven. ‘I’m gettingtoo old for this,’ he said. ‘Not to seem unfriendly, but
why are you here again?’
    ‘We came to ask Lawrence a couple of
questions.’
    ‘I hope you had good
reason.’
    ‘I thought so, but –’
    ‘You mean well, I can see that. But
he’s had enough pain. You leave him be now.’ He bent to lift up his bags
again and stumbled away, his trail of soil behind him.
    ‘He’s right,’ said Frieda,
soberly.
    Fearby unlocked his car. ‘Can I drop
you home?’
    ‘There’s a station round the
corner. I can walk and take the train back. It’s easier for both of us.’
    ‘Tired of me already?’
    ‘I’m thinking of your trip back.
Look, Jim, I’m sorry for dragging you all the way down here. It didn’t
amount to much.’
    He laughed. ‘Don’t be
ridiculous. I’ve driven across the country for way less than this. And been glad
to get it.’ He got into his car. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
    ‘Aren’t you baffled by the way
these girls can just disappear?’
    ‘Not baffled,’ he said.
‘Tormented.’
    He closed the door but opened it again.
    ‘What?’ asked Frieda.
    ‘How will I get in touch? I
don’t have your phone number, your email, your address.’
    They swapped numbers and he nodded to her.
‘We’ll speak soon.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘It’s not over.’



FIFTY
    Frieda walked to the station slowly. The day
was grey but hot, almost oppressive, and she felt grimy in the clothes she’d worn
yesterday. She allowed herself to think of her bath – Josef’s gift to her –
waiting in her clean, shaded house, empty at last of all people.
    She turned on her mobile and at once
messages pinged on to the screen: missed calls, voicemail, texts. Reuben had called six
times, Josef even more. Jack had written her a very