It was a very different Josef who came to her door now. His hair was long, dirty and full of dust; he had the beginnings of a beard that looked like the unintended result of not bothering to shave. He was wearing an old pair of canvas trousers, held up with a plastic belt, and a thick jersey. Over it was that quilted jacket, but it was torn and filthy. His boots were cracked. His hands were chapped and blistered. There was a fading bruise on his neck and a plaster across his grimy forehead. Above all, his face was slack, his eyes were dull and he wouldn’t meet Frieda’s gaze: he stood in the doorway, twisting his woollen hat between his hands and shifting from foot to foot.
Frieda took his hand and pulled him into the hall, shutting the door behind them. She caught a thick whiff of body odour, tobacco and alcohol. She pulled off his jacket and hung it next to her coat. There were holes in the elbows of his jersey.
‘Do you want to take your shoes off,’ she said. ‘Then we can go through and sit down.’
‘I not stay.’
His English seemed to have deteriorated in the short time that he had been away.
‘I’ll make you tea.’
‘No tea.’
‘How long have you been back, Josef?’
He held up his palms in a familiar gesture. ‘Some weeks.’
‘Why didn’t you say?’
Josef’s eyes lifted to her face then dropped again.
‘All your things are at Reuben’s. Your van’s there. Where have you been staying?’
‘Now? On site. In house that must be built. Is cold. But is roof.’
Frieda considered him. His entire body spoke of misery and defeat. ‘I want you to tell me what happened,’ she said gently. ‘But don’t worry – you don’t have to do it all at once. Whenever you’re ready, I’m here. I’m glad you’re back. So will Reuben be. His house needs you. And I need you.’
‘You only say.’
‘No, it’s true.’
‘I have no uses.’
‘Here’s the plan. I’m going to call Reuben and you’re staying there tonight. He has things wrong in his house. You can mend them. When you feel like it, you can tell me – or him – what’s happened. In the meantime, you’re going to sit in my kitchen, drink tea, and I have a question for you.’
Josef’s brown eyes stared at her for a moment. ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why you help me? I am bad man, Frieda. Bad, sad man.’
Frieda put a hand under his elbow and steered him into the kitchen. She pulled out a chair and he lowered his body into it. She boiled the kettle and, while the tea was brewing, toasted two pieces of bread for him, which she spread with butter and honey. ‘There. Get that down you.’
He took a hot gulp of tea and his eyes watered. He picked up a piece of toast and she saw how his hand trembled.
‘Now. I need you to help me.’ She put the flyer in front of him, face down, and pointed to the letters. ‘If you had to guess, what do those letters mean?’
Josef put his toast back on the plate, dragged his sleeve across his mouth, and peered at the words. ‘String, straw, cord, stone.’
‘They’re things you could use in building. But why string and cord together? Karlsson said strawberry planting, but I don’t think so. He wasn’t giving it serious attention.’
‘Is easy.’
‘What?’
‘Is easy,’ repeated Josef. For the first time, his eyes looked brighter.
‘So?’
‘Is paint.’
‘Paint?’
‘Names of paint. Gloom colours – like colours in your working room. Pale, dim colours. String, straw, cord and stone. So.’
‘Oh,’ said Frieda. ‘Josef, you’re brilliant.’
‘I?’
‘What about those letters: C, SB, WL.’
‘Is easy,’ Josef said again. For a brief moment he sounded almost happy. He pointed a finger upwards: ‘C is ceiling.’ His finger moved like the hand on a clock. ‘WL is left wall. And …’ His finger moved down.
‘Skirting board,’ supplied Frieda. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’
‘You are doctor, not builder.’
‘So someone was having their house painted.’ She looked at her watch. It was nearly half past four. ‘If we go now, we might get there before five. Will you come with me on an errand?’ He didn’t reply at once, so she added, ‘I need you to help me, Josef. Like you did before.’
It was beginning to get dark and the rain was turning to hail. Frieda thought that Josef looked like a large, helpless child as he trudged along the streets, his hat pulled low over his head and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his shabby trousers. She had called Reuben and told him that she and Josef would be there in the evening and he should make up the bed and perhaps put some baked potatoes into the oven.
‘Why we look?’ Josef asked now.
‘I’m trying to find someone. It’s a bit of a long story and I’ll tell you later.’
‘So how we look for walls of stone and straw?’
‘We can’t knock at every door of every house. But I thought if we see any external signs of building work we can knock at that door.’
‘So you take this road and I take that.’ Josef held up his phone. ‘I call you, you call me.’
Frieda was glad of these signs of engagement. She nodded, and they set off in different directions, met at the top of the streets without progress, and separated once more down another pair of parallel streets that led off from the high street and that Andy’s Pizzas flyers had apparently been delivered to.
Frieda was two thirds of the way along Tully Road when her mobile rang. ‘Josef?’
‘“Painting and Decorating, No Job Too Small”. Van here by me now, one tyre looks flat. Outside thirty-three Owens Close.’
‘Don’t move. I’ll be there.’
But there were no lights on in Owens Close and no one answered when Frieda rang the bell. She tried thirty-one, stood back from the door and waited. She heard footsteps and the door opened. A young man with a shaved scalp stuck his head out. She saw he was wearing a suit, and had a phone in his hand. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m sorry for bothering you,’ she said, conscious of Josef hovering on the street behind her, ‘but I was hoping you could help me. Do you happen to have decorators with you?’
‘Yeah. Hang on, let me just finish this call. Sorry, Cas, I’ll call back, OK? There. Sorry, decorators. Yes. Doing us top to bottom. They’re in the front room at the moment, I think they’re just finishing up for the day. But why do you want to know? Do you live nearby? Want a bit of painting done, maybe, because if so I can’t honestly say I’d recommend –’
‘No. It’s hard to explain. I’m looking for someone and I think you can perhaps help me.’
‘Me? I don’t get it. Do you want to come into the hall? It’s getting a bit chilly out here. And, um, your friend.’
‘It’s OK. I won’t take long.’ Frieda stepped into the hall, which still smelt of fresh paint. She pulled the flyer out of her bag. ‘Do you recognize this?’
‘Well.’ The young man looked at her warily, as if she might turn out to be a nutcase. ‘It’s a flyer. Obviously. Andy’s Pizzas.’
‘Do you get them delivered here? The flyers, I mean, not the pizzas.’
‘Yeah. I think so – all sorts of junk comes through our letterbox.’
Frieda turned the leaflet. ‘And this.’
He squinted, frowned. ‘I don’t think it’s my writing. Or Cas’s. My wife. What is this?’
‘Are you using Straw, String, Cord and Stone on your walls.’