‘What was she doing?’
‘Watching.’
Marina lets this sink in. ‘Why didn’t the nurse speak out? Surely she should have alerted somebody.’
‘Perhaps, but realistically, if the woman had been visiting a patient the previous time, it made sense that she would come again. We were quite a spectacle, all of us making a fuss of you. A lot of people would have noticed and stopped.’ She pauses, smiling fondly at the memory, and shrugs. ‘Like I said, it was something and nothing.’
Marina isn’t convinced.
9
Connie
May 1964
Dorothy appeared beside Connie as she stood in the hall, staring into the post box.
‘How have you been, dear?’ she asked in a low voice, stretching up to reach her letters.
‘I’m fine,’ said Connie, avoiding her gaze.
Dorothy pursed her lips as she shuffled through her post and then she sighed. No letter from Johnny. She wanted one as much as Connie did.
Dorothy looked up, resigned. ‘So, have you decided what’s best?’
‘No,’ said Connie truthfully. She had spent the last three days trying to work things out, lying awake at night, tangling the sheets as she tossed and turned, getting up and staring from the window, trying to find an answer in the darkness. To keep the baby or not to keep the baby. To wait and hope that Johnny would contact her, or to go ahead and make the decision alone.
Every morning, she had risen early, pasty-faced, hoping to get the sickness out of the way before her father got up. She had learned that nibbling a biscuit or a piece of dry toast staved off the nausea, so she had taken to keeping a packet of digestives next to her bed.
‘Well,’ said Dorothy, ‘it’s your choice, but should you want to know, I have found a lady. She’s very discreet and lives not too far from here.’
‘Oh.’ Connie swallowed, seized by the urge to cry.
‘I could make you an appointment, but only if you’d like me to. It would be a short visit, just to see what’s what.’
She gave a faint smile. Connie noticed a smear of lipstick on her front tooth. It amazed her how much make-up Dorothy wore. Her mother had hardly touched it. A little rouge, a touch of power. But then she’d been beautiful, her smooth face marked only by laughter lines, which had enhanced her appearance rather than the opposite. It was only at the end that pain had etched grooves into her skin.
Thinking about her mother made Connie think of her father. His lines had deepened too over this past year. His stature had changed as well. He had lost weight, seemed almost wizened at times, as if grief were eating him inside.
‘How about tomorrow?’ said Dorothy.
‘Tomorrow?’ repeated Connie. ‘But I . . .’ She stopped. What was the point of waiting? If it had to be done, then it should be done quickly. She nodded her consent.
‘I’ll knock.’
Connie nodded again and looked down at the floor.
‘I wish I could ask Johnny.’
‘It wouldn’t do any good, dear. Men don’t take this kind of thing as seriously as women. They don’t need to. It isn’t them who bear the consequences, who feel the pain.’
The door to Flat 2 opened and Eileen appeared wearing a yellow silk kimono. Black American, in her late twenties, she’d lived in London for the past five years, working in the theatre. Privately, Connie thought she was too good for her actor boyfriend: Leonard had a sallow face, mousy hair and pale eyes. He had a bad temper too judging by his perpetual scowl, and more than once Connie had seen a bruise on Eileen’s face.
Yet Eileen had a zest for life. She had a kindness too. When Connie’s mother died, Eileen had brought food. Connie recalled her standing in the doorway, clutching a casserole. Barefoot, dressed in white, with her black hair spread about her, she had been like an angel. She had taken the food into the kitchen and set it on the side before putting her arm about Connie and telling her how sorry she was. Most people tiptoed around the situation, barely mentioning Connie’s loss. Not Eileen.
Now Eileen grinned as she sailed past in a cloud of perfume and a wreath of smoke. Retrieving her letters, she picked out a slim blue envelope. ‘Wouldn’t you know it?’ she said. ‘A letter from America.’ She kissed it with a flourish.
‘What is it?’ asked Connie, eager for an excuse to turn from Dorothy.
‘An audition – at least that’s what I hope it is. On Broadway.’ She winked at Connie. ‘How about that?’
Eileen was heading for the horizon. Lucky her.
‘What does it say?’
‘All in good time.’ She glanced at the open door and slipped the envelope into her pocket. ‘Don’t want his nibs to find me out.’
She disappeared into her flat. A moment later and they heard music. The Beatles. That would be Leonard’s choice. Eileen preferred jazz. Once when Connie had been listening on the stairs, Eileen had come out unexpectedly and found her. She had invited her inside and introduced her to Billie Holiday. That voice, a beautiful, sultry sound. Connie liked the Beatles, but Billie Holiday had been something else.
Kenneth appeared, tying the cord of his dressing gown and scowling. He glanced at Dorothy, and not for the first time, Connie sensed a current running between the two of them as their eyes met. It was her mother who had suggested he and Dorothy were more than friends; her father had thought it more likely she was his spy. He said she had keys and snooped inside people’s flats when they were out.
Now Kenneth banged on Eileen and Leonard’s door, yelling at them to turn the music down. Connie gave one more despairing look at the empty post box and left him and Dorothy to it.
That evening, Connie sat on the edge of the bath with her head in her hands. The running water drowned out the noise of the men talking. Kenneth and Victor had turned up yet again.
It was a relief to relax behind a locked door, even though there was still no blood on the toilet tissue. She laid her hands on her belly. If there was a baby inside her, how big would it be? What would it look like? She imagined translucent skin and tiny fists and eyes screwed shut.
She stood abruptly, dislodging the image, turned off the taps and undressed. Easing herself into the water, she lay facing the window. The hot weather had broken and rain splattered across the frosted glass.
She had spent a miserable day in the bookshop, feigning a headache until her father had given her an aspirin and sent her to rest in the back room. There she had sat, questioning what she was going to do. If only Johnny would write. She felt heavy with longing, as if a lump of lead had fallen to the bottom of her stomach. She could drown with its weight inside her, like a sack of mewling kittens.
They’d had a kitten once. It had arrived on the steps of their house. Black with four white feet – and she and her mother had taken it in and called it Socks. ‘No pets allowed,’ her father had said, but though he was a stickler for rules, he had given in to the charms of Socks – and Connie’s mother. They had kept her, and fed her titbits, and made her a bed in an empty orange crate. If Kenneth noticed, he didn’t interfere and even Victor had succumbed, letting the cat sit in his lap when he visited. Mind you, Victor had been a better person then. Her mother had had a knack for bringing out the best in people. It was only after she had died that Victor had shown a different side.
Not that her mother had kept her thoughts to herself. Connie remembered a disagreement she had had with Dorothy. Her ex-husband had turned up out of the blue, drunk and hurling abuse at Mrs Kolinski. Her mother had called the police.
Connie’s mind turned back to Socks. One day, the cat had disappeared. Her father had said it was inevitable with a stray, and although her mother had agreed, she had continued to put saucers of milk outside the door, hoping Socks would return.
The water in the bath cooled, but Connie could still hear the drone of the men’s voices and catch snatches of their conversation. They were talking about the state of the basement flat.
‘I need to employ a cleaner,�
� Victor was saying, ‘unless your Connie wants the job.’ He raised his voice, shouting through to her. ‘Hey, Connie, fancy earning a bob or two?’
Not on your bloody life. She turned on the hot tap to mask their voices and, for better effect, reached down to the transistor on the floor. She twisted the dial and out came Cilla Black blasting ‘Anyone Who Had a Heart’.
Lying back and stretching her toes, Connie listened to the music. She would stay in the bathroom until Victor and Kenneth had gone.
She added bath salts to the water. It made the water green, like a river slick with algae – only it was getting too hot; beads of sweat had broken out on her skin. Still she let the hot tap run because, despite the heat, it was good to be here. Her body felt light, but now her mind was drifting to those women who took boiling baths, drank too much gin and used knitting needles. She shuddered imagining it, even though she had already tried dragging furniture around, rearranging the sitting room. And now this hot bath. Would Dorothy’s contact suggest this? What else would Connie have to do? Would she end up like Harry’s cousin – or was it his cousin’s friend?
Her mind was struggling to focus and she felt horribly sick, but she stayed in the bath with the hot tap running and the steam rising. A few more minutes and it could all be done. Then she felt a sensation, a tiny quickening. Struggling, she sat up. Was that the baby? Surely it was too soon? Did it know what Connie was doing? In a panic, she leaned forward. The room spun as she groped for the plug and wrenched it out. Clamping both hands on the side of the bath, she hauled herself upwards. Dizzy and stumbling, she reached the toilet, leaned over it, and vomited in painful spasms. Cilla stopped. The Beatles took over. There was a knock on the door.
‘Are you all right?’ Her father spoke, his voice full of concern. She gulped, chest heaving. ‘Connie?’
Turning off the transistor, she swallowed hard. ‘I’m fine. Won’t be a minute.’ Guilt joined forces with nausea as she wiped the spittle from her mouth. If only he knew.
If only she could tell him.
Shivering, she drew her knees to her chest, clasping them tightly to stop the trembling. As she waited for the shaking to subside, she imagined the baby slipping through her in a bloodied mess.
She thought the men had left. In her bedroom, she dressed and brushed her hair, tying it with a band. When she opened the door, she heard voices. Victor had gone, but Kenneth was there.
They were talking about the rent.
‘One more month,’ she heard her father say, ‘and I’ll pay off the debt.’
Connie’s heart sank. Where would he get that kind of money?
Kenneth sighed. ‘I have to say that’s very unfortunate. Very unfortunate indeed.’
Connie could imagine his bird-like gaze flickering around the room, his skinny fingers drumming on the edges of the chair.
‘I’ve helped you several times,’ he added. ‘The sum is growing. Debt is debt and I am meticulous in calling it in.’
Connie gritted her teeth. How was this fair? Kenneth had stolen his money, yet here he was acting holier than thou over an honest loan to her father.
She stepped forward, hoping her presence would shame him, but Kenneth took no notice. Trying not to show her emotions, she sat on the arm of her father’s chair. Her heart twisted hearing how politely and respectfully he spoke. She was sure Kenneth must have a whole stash of money hidden somewhere.
After he’d gone, she asked her father why Kenneth wouldn’t help.
‘He has his own problems.’
‘With money? I don’t believe it.’
Her father shrugged, reluctant to speak.
‘You don’t need to protect me, Dad. I know what he’s like. Everyone does. He’s a crook, a villain. I won’t be shocked.’
‘I know that, Connie. But you have enough to think about without worrying about this.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Working at the bookshop, looking after the flat. Looking after me.’
‘You know I don’t mind any of that.’
‘Well, I do. You should be out there enjoying life like other girls your age, finding yourself a young man.’
She dropped her gaze. ‘It doesn’t matter. Tell me about Kenneth.’
He shook his head.
‘Dad, please. I’m old enough now. We’re a team, aren’t we?’
He sighed. ‘Of course.’ He took off his glasses and looked at her fondly.
He was so tired, Connie thought, so fed up with life. She was supposed to lift his mood. It was what she’d tried to do since her mother had gone, but instead of getting happier as time passed, he seemed more miserable than ever.
She regretted pressing him about Kenneth and whatever his problems were, but he told her anyway.
‘It’s Frank Dennis.’
She frowned. ‘Who?’ The name was familiar, but she couldn’t place where she’d heard it.
‘One of Kenneth’s old gang members,’ said her father, producing a handkerchief and polishing the lenses of his glasses. ‘The one who supposedly . . .’ He stopped, perched the glasses back on his nose. ‘Anyway, he’s out of prison.’
Now Connie remembered. Her father was talking about the last job Kenneth had been involved in, an armed robbery in a bank that had ended badly, with one man – a security guard – attacked and left for dead, and Kenneth and his two cronies in prison. Kenneth was already out, of course, and ostensibly on the straight and narrow. Another of the convicted men had died in prison – a suicide, they said. But Frank Dennis was the one accused of assaulting the guard and he’d been given the longest sentence. Only there had recently been an appeal on some technicality or other and he’d finally been released.
‘Why’s that a problem for Kenneth?’ asked Connie.
‘I don’t know for certain . . . but some of the money from the robbery was never recovered by the police.’
She nodded, remembering.
‘And some people think . . .’
He stopped again and Connie made a guess. ‘They think that Kenneth stole Frank’s share.’
Her father scratched his chin. ‘Let’s just say, in Kenneth’s case, the chickens may be coming home to roost.’
10
Marina
January 1992
Marina unwraps the shawl from its tissue paper, releasing the scent of lavender. Laying the shawl on the bed, she admires the blue. The police would have examined every inch, scrutinised the label, searching for clues, but she can’t help thinking there’s a secret they might have missed, hidden in the depths of its weave.
Along with the shawl is a white cotton gown, although the material is yellowed and softened with age. Handsewn, it’s a family heirloom perhaps. Marina imagines deft fingers holding a needle, forming neat stitches.
She places Sofía’s folder next to it and tries to quell her anticipation.
A knock disturbs her train of thought and she opens the door to a smiley young woman with short, purple hair and red dungarees, carrying a baby in a sling and holding a plant – a fern in a pot.
‘Welcome,’ the woman says, holding out the fern. ‘I’m Selena Hamilton from Flat 4. That’s Bill.’ She points to a shy-looking man behind her, who smiles too.
‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Marina.’ She takes the plant. ‘This is very kind.’
‘If you need anything, do shout. Or come up and see me! I’m always keen to speak to an adult.’ She strokes her baby’s head.
Marina thanks her and invites the couple in for coffee, but just as they accept, the baby starts to cry. Selena gives a reluctant sigh and promises to return another time – ‘When this one’s feeling a bit more sociable.’
As Marina sets the plant in the fireplace, she mentally crosses out any possibility that the young residents of Flat 4 lived in the house when she was born. To be honest, she’s relieved not to have to make small talk when all she really wants to do is to read through Sofía’s folder.
She opens it. Inside is a sheaf of p
apers and a bundle of photos. Several of the photos are of Marina in the hospital, lying in a crib or in Sofía’s arms. She has a mass of dark hair and is wrapped in the shawl with her eyes screwed shut. Marina examines the corners and the edges, each smudge and spot and grain, and it occurs to her that at the time of this photo, the shawl would have held her mother’s scent. Picking up the shawl now, she lifts it to her face. If only Ruth hadn’t corrupted the smell with her sprigs of dried lavender. If only she and David hadn’t taken her to Wiltshire. What if her mother had intended to return, like a vixen to its cubs or a wild cat to its kittens?
She clenches her jaw. They had no right to take her so far away. Who told them that they could?
Breathing slowly, she shakes her head. It’s not fair to blame Ruth and David, the two people who love her more than anyone else. Her mother could have walked into any police station and presented herself at any time. And the scent of the shawl would have faded anyway.
She turns to the clippings Sofía has saved. Most of them she’s already seen – in Ruth’s collection – but there’s one she doesn’t recognise, from a local paper. Along with a picture of the house, there’s a headshot of the first policeman on the scene. He describes interviewing the tenant who, along with the landlord, discovered the baby. The tenant is named as Eileen Clarke, and the landlord Kenneth Quip. Another photo shows the two of them. Kenneth is thin-faced and dressed in a light shirt open at the collar. He gives the impression of having been caught off guard, with one hand raised to his face. Eileen is an attractive black woman, who looks directly at the camera. ‘I heard crying,’ the paper quotes her as saying. ‘And when I opened my door, I found her in the hall, tucked away in the corner and bundled in the shawl. I couldn’t believe a baby had been left there. It was very upsetting.’ She goes on to say how the front door had been left wide open and how someone must have taken the chance to bring the baby in.
The article is more salacious than those Marina has read before. The focus is on Eileen, describing her as an American model turned actress who performed on stage in the West End and threw parties with her one-time boyfriend, actor Leonard Crisp. There is a quote from a neighbour describing the noise and more specifically a daytime disturbance when Eileen threw Leonard’s possessions out of the window. Marina reads in disbelief. There is more speculation about the woman who found the baby than there is about who might have abandoned her and why.
The Hiding Place Page 8