One day, not long after the funeral, Ron had knocked on Eva’s door. He had brought her a box of Turkish Delight. The gesture, along with his shy kindness, had touched her. She had accepted his gift and they had talked. Their friendship had grown and become something more – until a silly disagreement had separated them.
She thought about that now. He had criticised her, said she shuttered her emotions. Shuttered. Was that the word he had used? Either way, he meant that she had a way of seeming absent even when physically present. She had taken umbrage, although it was true. And that last day, when they had planned to go to the common for a walk, she had still been resentful.
It was the furthest Eva had agreed to go since her mother’s funeral. Until then, she had only been to the hall to collect her post. She hadn’t even ventured to Ron’s flat.
Nothing had happened until they stepped onto the landing. Then the dizziness had come – a teetering sensation as if she were about to fall. She’d heard voices filtering up from the floor below. A door slamming. Music playing. It was all in her imagination, of course, but she had felt fear slinking through her bones, a familiar sense of darkness. She had tried to anchor herself in the present, the here and now, but it was hard and, terrified of giving herself away, she’d made an excuse to stay at home. The conversation had turned into an argument and then she’d sent him away.
It had been an episode. Like those she had had as a child when her mother would find her staring into space, more in a trance than in a daydream, as if she had dropped out of the world. It was literally like falling, although she didn’t know whether it was she who was falling, or the world about her.
Then, she had seen doctors and psychologists, taken tests, had checks and assessments. The professionals had gathered and discussed and compared notes. But no one had come up with anything other than a vague suggestion of post-traumatic stress, brought on by childhood shock: she’d seen her father knocked down by a bus, and watched her mother have a miscarriage – although she could remember neither event, and no amount of coaxing or cajoling could bring the memories back.
At school, when she had managed to get there, she had been silent and serene, unemotional, a remarkable musical talent. The bullies hadn’t understood her so had left her alone. At music college, she had taken on a similar persona, staying in her room at halls and avoiding communal areas like the students’ union and bar. She had gone only to the lessons that she had been obliged to go to and spent excessive hours in the practice rooms.
Now, she strikes a chord. She’s playing Chopin, Nocturne in E flat major, Op. 9, No. 2. It was her mother’s favourite piece and she wants to get it right. Not that she’ll ever be able to play as well as her mother used to do. Her mother could have been a concert pianist if her life had turned out differently. If she hadn’t experienced the horror of persecution in the Second World War. Even after she had escaped Poland and come to London, life had never been a bed of roses.
Roses. A memory tugs. A face. The curve of a cheek.
Eva shivers and plays more notes. She misses her mother. No one gets over losing their mother. That’s the truth. What will she do? Move away? Stay in the flat? She strikes another chord. And then another. She thinks of the woman downstairs. Maybe it was her hair that had unsettled her. Dark like Eva’s mother’s. Like Eva’s. Mind you, the last time she had spoken to a doctor, he had told her if she didn’t eat properly, her hair would fall out before she was thirty-five. An exaggeration, of course, but even so.
She plays again, her fingers running lightly across the keys. Better. Standing, she heads to the kitchen to make coffee. She has a rule. One coffee a day. No milk. Late afternoon to pick up her spirits.
There is a light knock on the door. Eva hesitates. She is expecting a pupil, but Toby is young and he hammers on the door. Besides, it’s too early. It’s not him. She steps forward, her breath rising and falling. She has a second rule that she only opens the door when she knows who is there and a third rule that she never invites people into her flat unless they have a prior appointment. Since that applies only to her pupils or the occasional plumber or electrician, and Ron of course when she was seeing him, she rarely speaks to anyone.
Edging closer, she listens. The person knocks again, a little more loudly. Eva steadies herself, fingers on the doorframe for balance. The footsteps retreat; she can hear a light tread on the stairs.
Moments pass. Gently she opens the door. Voices float upwards from the landing on the floor below and she knows without seeing that one of them belongs to the beautiful woman downstairs.
7
Connie
May 1964
Dorothy Light opened the door swiftly as if she had a place to go. A tiny woman with pointed features and mousy hair scraped into a bun, she wore a drab mustard-coloured dress and a brown apron tied at the waist. Her make-up on the other hand was vivid: bright slabs of blue eyeshadow, daring dabs of rouge, a pink slash of lipstick.
‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Can I help you?’
Connie held out the tea towel she’d retrieved from the line. A souvenir of the coronation, and no doubt Kenneth’s, but a good enough excuse to knock. ‘I think this might be yours.’
Dorothy shook her head. ‘Oh no, speak to Kenneth. It’s most likely his.’ Then, when Connie stayed, she added, ‘Is there anything else?’
Connie cleared her throat. ‘I wondered if you had Johnny’s address.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t. Why do you want it?’
Connie lowered her voice. Walls had ears, as her mother used to say, and so did people lurking – and right now she could hear Kenneth’s shuffle and the tap of his silver-topped stick. ‘There’s something I need to tell him.’
‘What kind of something?’ Dorothy narrowed her gaze. She had small eyes, blue like her son’s, but that was the only resemblance. Johnny was tall with broad shoulders. He took up space. Dorothy was compact.
Connie shifted where she stood. She could feel the sweat beneath the waistband of her dress. All morning she had felt stifled in the airless flat. Her father had gone to the bookshop even though it was Sunday. He was waiting for word of an interesting item as he called it, a rare book put up for sale by a private collector in York. When the time came, he would travel to York to fetch it and Connie had suggested he tie it in with a visit to Aunt Maud in Whitby.
‘It’s about an art exhibition,’ said Connie, flushing at the untruth and trying to recall what artists were actually showing in London. Dorothy looked blank. ‘It’s a brilliant exhibition, so if you do hear from him . . .’
Still no response. Connie’s shoulders slumped. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and it was two o’clock already. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Dorothy was looking at her with a curious expression. ‘I think you’d better come in.’
Without thinking, Connie stepped forward. She regretted her decision immediately. The flat was even hotter than theirs, with clutter everywhere: baskets of clothes, an ironing board, piles of magazines and papers; while photos of Johnny adorned the mantelpiece, the sideboard, the table and the walls. Connie’s stomach churned at the smell, a mix of starch, Windolene and sweet perfume. A bunch of keys attached to a giant ring lay beside the wireless on the sideboard. A prison warder’s keys, Connie thought as she imagined them hanging at Dorothy’s waist.
Heaving a basket from the settee, Dorothy gestured for Connie to take its place before sitting in the armchair opposite.
‘So,’ she said, folding her spindly arms, ‘tell me more.’
‘Well,’ said Connie quickly, ‘Johnny promised to write to me and I promised to write back, only I haven’t heard from him and . . . well, I’m interested in art and travelling and I’m hoping to visit Paris at some point . . . in the future . . . when my father . . .’
She fell silent. A fat bluebottle buzzed in through the open window. Connie watched its jerky, panicked flight and sudden halt as it landed on a strip of flypaper hanging fro
m the ceiling which was already speckled with dark, dead insects.
Dorothy watched too. And then she sighed. ‘I think you need to forget about him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean Johnny hasn’t contacted me – his own mother – so what makes you believe he’s going to contact you?’
‘Because . . .’
Connie stopped and looked away. Why hadn’t Johnny contacted either of them?
‘The thing is,’ Dorothy said, without taking her eyes from the fly, ‘young people think they invented it all, that no one else has ever been there or done that before.’
Connie was taken aback. This had nothing to do with her request. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
Dorothy shifted her gaze from the flypaper and fixed her eyes on Connie again. ‘No,’ she said quietly, ‘I don’t suppose you do.’
And then quite abruptly, her manner changed. She became brisk, attentive. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I know what’s been going on, so there’s no need to make excuses about art and whatnot.’
Connie waited, uncertain. Had Johnny told his mother about the two of them? As far as she knew, he had kept their relationship a secret, just as Connie had.
‘I’ve known for a long time,’ Dorothy continued. She held up one hand, palm facing outwards. ‘And before you ask, no he didn’t tell me. Johnny has never confided in me much.’
Connie detected a catch in her voice. When Johnny had spoken about his mother, it had always been with resentment, even contempt. He was misunderstood, he claimed, born into the wrong life. Now she wondered if Dorothy had felt hurt by her son’s attitude. Connie glanced at the photos around the room. Whatever Johnny said, these pictures showed devotion.
‘However,’ she continued, ‘I am an observant person. Not that it was hard to miss – all those trips to the attic.’
She raised her eyebrows again and the heat on Connie’s face grew stronger. What exactly did Dorothy know?
‘The thing is,’ she said again, folding her hands neatly on her lap, ‘Johnny hasn’t contacted you and he hasn’t contacted me. Those are the plain facts. We can only hope that he’ll come home when he’s ready.’
Connie wanted to shout out that she didn’t have time to wait. She needed to speak to Johnny now. Instead, she said awkwardly, ‘Yes.’ She was beginning to feel quite sick again.
A moment passed. Then Dorothy stood up, crossed to the sofa and took Connie’s hand. ‘Poor girl. It can’t be easy without a mother to advise you.’
Dorothy’s palm felt rough from hard work. Connie’s mother had had skin like that too. Connie pictured her applying cream, kneading it into her hands. She remembered how it had smelled of lavender, but what had the cream been called? And now she felt a panic because she couldn’t recall. How many other memories was she losing?
The idea made her feel strangely dizzy. She passed her hand across her damp forehead. Dorothy was still looking at her with that bright, blue stare. She thought of her mother’s kind, gentle eyes, of Johnny’s distant gaze, always wanting something else. And then she thought of her father and how disappointed his expression would be if he found out about the baby. And there was Dorothy still watching, a small, knowing smile etched on her face. Connie tried to speak but her tongue felt thick. She tried to see clearly but the light was fading and the room was turning.
‘Head between your knees,’ came Dorothy’s distant voice. ‘Deep breaths. I’ll fetch some water.’
Connie obeyed, leaning forward, breathing steadily, and by the time Dorothy returned, the room had stilled and the light had brightened. Taking the glass, she drank deeply.
‘There,’ said Dorothy, sitting down and patting Connie’s knee. ‘Feeling better?’
Connie nodded although the dizziness had left an ache inside her head. She finished drinking and Dorothy took the glass.
‘Now then,’ she said, setting it down on the carpet. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’
Connie massaged her temples. ‘I’m sorry. I haven’t eaten. I think that’s what it is.’
Dorothy sighed. ‘Oh dear, do you think I was born yesterday? It all comes back to the idea that the younger generation think they invented it.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Connie, and she really didn’t. The conversation had gone around so many corners she had lost her way.
‘Temptation,’ said Dorothy. ‘I was young once, believe it or not, and I know what men can be like. Even my son. My husband . . . well, he was . . .’ She stopped and eyed Connie. ‘Let’s just say that both his presence and his absence had a bad effect on Johnny. It caused a certain weakness in him. Johnny’s not a bad person, but . . . men and boys, well . . . you and I both understand how it is. It’s the way of the world.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t have to spell it out, do I? I know, dear – about your predicament. You’re pregnant, aren’t you?’
Connie felt herself turn pale. Was it so obvious? And if Dorothy had guessed, had anybody else?
‘I was a midwife,’ she said, reading Connie’s mind, ‘so it’s easy for me to spot. I doubt very much anyone else has seen it.’ She paused before adding, ‘Yet.’
Connie hung her head. The pain was subsiding, but the queasiness had returned.
‘Now listen, dear. Don’t get upset. I know how you feel because . . .’ She hesitated. ‘I’ve seen other girls go through this.’
Connie closed her eyes and let out a long breath. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ There, she had admitted it. The words had come and now the tears came too, streaming down her face.
Dorothy patted her arm. ‘Of course you don’t. Why would you?’
She produced a handkerchief from her sleeve and passed it across. Connie took it and mopped at her face. The handkerchief smelled of eau de cologne.
‘But what have you considered?’
‘I need to tell Johnny,’ said Connie, sniffing. ‘That’s why I want his address.’
There was a silence. On the landing outside she could hear movement, the clunk of Kenneth’s stick on the floorboards. She thought of the tea towel that she must have dropped outside the door. She imagined Kenneth poking it with his stick, hooking it up and wondering how it had got there.
‘And have you thought about what you’ll do if he doesn’t send his address?’ Dorothy spoke slowly, spacing out her words.
Connie scrubbed at her eyes and shook her head. ‘He’ll write. He said he would.’
There was another silence between them. A second bluebottle buzzed through the window, circled the room in a busy, zigzag flight.
‘Nasty things,’ said Dorothy, distracted, ‘spreading germs.’ She picked up a magazine from a pile on the floor and rolled it up.
‘Look,’ she said, half an eye on the fly still, ‘Johnny’s my son and it pains me to say this, but he isn’t the most . . . how shall I put it?’ She stopped and lunged ineffectively at the bluebottle as it passed. ‘He isn’t the most, well, faithful of . . . men.’
Connie felt a growing anger and clamped down her feelings. She clearly knew Johnny better than Dorothy did and she wouldn’t listen to this.
‘Like I said before,’ said Dorothy, ‘my husband had a detrimental effect on Johnny’s character, and I doubt you’ll hear from him again.’
‘But he promised,’ said Connie, finally.
Dorothy gave her a look as if to say you poor thing. Connie clenched her fists.
‘There was another girl,’ Dorothy went on, ‘in the last place we lived. She thought Johnny was the bee’s knees. Mooned over him night and day. Always at our door. Pretty little thing, truth be told, but not enough to hold onto Johnny. When we moved, there was no backward glance.’
‘But . . .’ Connie struggled to understand. ‘In my case, it’s different, we . . .’ She wanted to say they loved each other, but she thought it would sound foolish. ‘We care for each other,’ she said instead.
Dorothy sat back, hands folded. ‘Then why hasn’t he w
ritten to you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How far along are you?’
‘Three months,’ Connie mumbled, her nails digging into her skin.
Dorothy sucked in her breath and shook her head. ‘It’s a pity you didn’t come and see me earlier. Have you tried anything at all?’
Connie stared at her. Yes was the answer. She had moved heavy furniture and run fast as if she might dislodge the baby. But she didn’t want to admit that, so she shook her head.
‘No? Well, it’s not too late.’
‘But . . .’
‘The thing is,’ Dorothy continued quietly, ‘you’re not the first young woman to have made this decision and you certainly won’t be the last. When I was a midwife, you wouldn’t believe the things I saw. Young girls – younger than you, giving birth.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘Fourteen, fifteen years old. No fathers to be seen. The babies were passed off as their siblings to avoid the shame or sent for adoption.’
‘Adoption?’
‘Yes. And frankly that wasn’t always what the girls wanted. It was their parents.’
‘They were forced?’
‘More or less. Of course, the girls had to sign papers, more often than not, but . . . yes. It’s the shame, you see. There’s no shortage of fingers pointing when society comes across an unmarried mother. There are plenty of young girls with loose morals these days and that’s all very well, unless you’re caught out.’
Connie hung her head. She knew this was true. She had heard so many stories. A girl at school who had left for a year. On the surface, when she returned, it was as if nothing had happened: the way she looked; the way she had slotted back into lessons. There was a story about her having been ill or some such excuse. But no one had believed it and she had never fitted in again properly. Everyone knew she’d had a baby. Everyone knew too that there was no baby at home. Supposition and rumour had followed. She had murdered her baby, smothered it with a cushion. Her family had thrown the baby into the river. It had been adopted by foreigners and taken off to Russia or Canada or Timbuctoo. Nobody knew the truth, but Connie remembered the sadness in her eyes.
The Hiding Place Page 6