‘Is everything all right?’ he asks, running his hand through slicked-back hair.
‘It’s the boiler,’ she says, and explains the problem of the scalding water and lukewarm radiators. ‘Can you contact the landlord?’
He shuffles his feet. ‘I can try.’
‘Try?’ Marina is taken aback. She knows the rent is low and that she agreed to accept the place as it is, but even so, she has rights.
‘I mean, I’ll ask him to OK repairs.’
‘Ask him?’
‘Tell him. Yes. Tell him.’
Marina is unconvinced. ‘Why don’t you give me his number?’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Cut out the middle man.’
He looks around helplessly. He is a good five years younger than Marina and a lot less self-assured. An older woman stares across disapprovingly from her desk.
Marina lowers her voice. ‘Listen. I understand that you can get into trouble. But it’s freezing in the flat.’
She holds out her hands and wiggles her numb fingers. He peers at them and grimaces.
‘Give me his number, or his address, if you like. I can say I found it myself . . . No one needs to know.’
He sighs. ‘It’s very unorthodox. And the landlord is quite particular.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He prefers to be anonymous.’
Marina resists the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she lays her hand on his sleeve. He blushes. ‘I understand. But he doesn’t need to find out. Why don’t you tell me his name?’
He opens his mouth. The woman clears her throat. Wayne shakes his head. ‘I’ll call him today, I promise.’
She frowns and gives up. ‘Fine. But please tell him it’s an emergency.’
‘An emergency,’ he parrots. ‘Yes, of course. In the meantime, there’s an electrical shop not far from here where you can buy . . .’
He doesn’t finish his sentence, because Marina has left. She is marching to buy an electric heater that she will charge to the negligent landlord.
When she gets home in possession of the heater, there is a decorator’s van parked in the street and migraine-inducing hammering coming from above. Marina mutters as she steps inside her flat, heaves the heater from its box, crouches on the carpet and fiddles with the dials. A piece of plaster drops beside her.
‘And now the sky is falling in.’
She smiles thinking of David reading her the story of Chicken Licken. It was always David who performed those quiet tasks, the tea parties for her dolls, the animals on her farm, the Lego and the games. Ruth was a force of nature, ferrying her from one adventure to the next.
She plugs in the heater and warms her hands over its pathetic seep of air.
‘Hey!’ Ron pokes his head into the room. ‘You left the door open.’
‘Did I? Must be the noise interfering with my sense.’
He saunters in – yellow shirt and khaki shorts – and waves a bottle of wine in her direction. ‘Fancy a drink?’
‘Aren’t you cold?’
He chuckles. ‘Never feel it.’
‘Lucky you. Shouldn’t you be at work?’
‘Day off.’
‘Double lucky you.’
She disappears into the kitchen to open the wine and fetch glasses. When she returns, he is examining the photo of Ruth and David. ‘You look more like your dad than your mum,’ he says, taking his drink.
She suppresses a smile. People see what they believe they should see.
He raises his glass. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
They sit in armchairs facing each other. Ron lounges easily, long legs sprawled. Above them, the hammering transforms into thumping.
‘You’d think the landlord would mind – at least a bit,’ says Marina.
‘Makes his life easy.’
‘I suppose. I’m planning to paint. So far, I’ve managed that.’ She points at a trio of samples on the walls – burgundy, dark blue and bronze green. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘I like the blue.’
More loud noises above them. They look up in unison.
‘Maybe they’ve discovered a body,’ suggests Ron, ‘underneath the floorboards.’
‘God, I hope not.’ Marina takes a large drink of her wine. The heater sputters. She leans across and alters the setting. ‘I’ve told the estate agent that the landlord has to fix my boiler.’
‘Good luck with that.’
‘I wanted to call him myself, but they won’t give me his number.’
‘You could always intercept him.’
‘Where?’
‘He sometimes wanders about in the garden. Old guy with white hair.’
‘Oh, I think I’ve seen him. Does he have a cane?’
‘That’s him.’
‘I thought he was Giovanni.’
Ron laughs. ‘Giovanni’s thirty years younger than our lovely landlord.’
‘I don’t believe he exists.’
‘Giovanni? He does, I promise you. He’s an interesting guy.’
There’s another crash above them. Marina makes a face. ‘How am I supposed to get any work done?’
She tells him about Agata’s memoirs and he listens, interested.
‘Not an easy read,’ he remarks.
‘Not an easy life. An orphan, alone in another country.’
He nods, agreeing. ‘Do you do much research? Must be difficult.’
‘I trust Agata to get her facts right, though I do check dates and main events. I lived in Poland for a bit.’ She hesitates before she says, ‘I visited Auschwitz.’
‘Shit. How was that?’
She shrugs. ‘I told myself that my feelings were irrelevant in comparison to the suffering that had happened there.’ She shuts her eyes, remembering the visit that no words can really describe.
When she glances at Ron again, he is looking at her thoughtfully. ‘Eva’s parents had a similar experience. I mean they both had to flee Poland.’
‘Did they? You said her mother died not long ago. What about her father?’
‘He died too, when Eva was very small – had an accident I think.’
Ron swirls his wine, stares into the glass and adds, ‘She doesn’t talk about it much, or anything about her past for that matter.’
Marina frowns, sensing the disappointment in his voice.
He continues. ‘Of course, she might talk to you since you’re editing articles about the war.’
‘Not articles,’ she says. ‘It’s a memoir. Although . . .’ She stops and plays with the stem of her glass. She is almost tempted to tell Ron the truth, but resists because a new idea is forming. ‘I’ve been thinking about branching out, you know, from publishing into journalism. I worked in local radio for a while . . . a long time ago.’
‘Impressive.’
It isn’t really. She’s exaggerating. Ruth had known one of the producers and had wangled some work experience for Marina when she’d been at school. It had amounted to making tea and running messages.
‘Anyway, I’ve been looking around for a story to write about.’
‘And you’re thinking about Eva’s? I don’t . . .’
‘No, no. Not that,’ Marina says quickly. ‘A local story, a case that has never been solved, which I could find a new angle on, and take to a local newspaper.’
‘Sounds interesting. Do you have anything in mind?’
‘Well,’ she speaks slowly. ‘I did hear that a baby was abandoned in this house.’
He raises his eyebrows, surprised. ‘Yes, I heard that too.’ He frowns. ‘I’m trying to remember who told me. Selena, I think. You know, the woman upstairs.’ He jabs his finger at the ceiling where there is still the sound of heavy hammering.
Marina shifts in her seat. ‘Do you know the details – of the baby, I mean?’
He shakes his head. ‘Not really. You should talk to Selena, or you could go to the library or something, go through the newspaper archives.’
‘That’s a good idea.’ She sips her wine, slowly. ‘I’ve been thinking about tracking down some of the tenants who lived in the house at the time. I think there’s only Eva still here.’
He looks at her, surprised. ‘You’ve already started researching?’
‘Only a bit,’ she replies hastily.
‘Well, what year did it happen?’
‘I think . . . early sixties.’ She keeps her voice vague.
‘In that case, I doubt Eva would have much to say. She’d be too young.’
‘Yes, but she might remember what people said.’
‘Well, if you’re serious, I could ask if she would speak to you.’
Marina’s heart beats harder. She moistens her lips. ‘Would you?’
‘I can’t promise she’ll say yes. Like I told you, she’s a bit . . .’ – he makes a wry face – ‘. . . unsociable.’
He drinks the rest of his wine. The hammering stops and drilling begins.
‘In the meantime,’ Ron says, holding out his empty glass to be filled. ‘I think you should complain.’
Later, after Ron has gone, Marina knocks on the door of Flat 4. The noise inside is so loud, it takes a while before Selena answers, but when she does, with the baby in its sling on her chest, she’s beaming. She must have a permanent smile etched on her face. It’s infectious. Marina grins stupidly back.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Selena gestures to the drilling behind her and then runs her fingers through her hair, which has changed from purple to green. ‘I’ll tell Pete – that’s our decorator – to keep down the noise.’
‘It’s not a problem,’ Marina replies, almost guiltily, before politely mentioning the damaged ceiling. ‘I just thought you should know.’
‘Oh God. Sorry. I’ll ask Pete to do something about it. In the meantime, do you fancy a cup of tea?’
Marina hesitates, but curiosity takes hold and she agrees.
Selena disappears to find Pete and the drilling stops. They go into the kitchen. It is the same narrow shape as Marina’s, only the table and worktops are covered with baby paraphernalia – teething toys, dummies, bibs – alongside unwashed mugs and breakfast bowls.
Selena looks ruefully at the clutter and shifts the baby higher on her chest.
‘Shall I make the tea?’ Marina offers.
‘No, it’s fine. Maybe you could have Lottie?’
Marina takes the baby awkwardly, holding the fragile body lightly as Selena piles dirty crockery into the sink and wipes the surfaces, quickly and efficiently, taking advantage of her freedom. She puts on the kettle and assembles mugs, teabags and biscuits. Her face looks tired and there are lines around her eyes.
‘Do you like children?’ she asks as she works. ‘Milk, sugar?’
‘Yes, although I don’t have much to do with them to be honest, and yes please, milk and two sugars.’
‘Any nephews or nieces?’ The kettle is boiling. She pours it onto the tea.
Marina shakes her head, breathes in the scent of the baby’s hair. She has fallen asleep in her arms.
In the living room, Selena sets the mugs on the glass coffee table and clears a bundle of clothes from an armchair for Marina to sit. She lowers herself gingerly, but the movement wakes the baby and Selena takes over. They settle, Lottie in her mother’s arms now. She has a slick of black hair and a bald spot on the crown.
‘She was born with a shock of hair,’ says Selena, shaking her own short crop. ‘Now it’s fallen out and she’s like a little monk.’ She gives a laugh. ‘I was the same, according to my mother.’
Marina makes suitable noises, while surreptitiously looking around the room. According to her notes this is Thomas Littleton’s flat. Post-decoration, the room is bright. Modern. There is a sense of calm. Perhaps it’s the tangerine walls, the gauzy yellow curtains, the paintings of poppies on the walls, the light-coloured, angular furniture. She asks if the landlord minds them working on the flat.
‘He’s fine with it,’ says Selena. ‘We did the bathroom last year and had no complaints. Mind you, we don’t spend a lot; no point as we’re renting. It’s only the paint really.’
‘Oh?’
‘My husband has a gardening business. His friend, Pete, is a painter and decorator. They exchange skills.’
‘Sounds like a good arrangement.’
‘Are you thinking of decorating too?’
‘Yes, but I can’t decide on the colour.’
‘It isn’t easy, is it?’
‘How did you decide?’
‘I wanted a contrast. The place was empty for years before we moved in. Dark, no carpet, tatty velvet curtains, peeling wallpaper. It was cheap of course, which is why we took it. The previous tenant died some time before, I believe. Not sure why it wasn’t rented out for so long.’
Marina nods, thinking about this. Thomas Littleton, she supposes, although there could have been a different tenant in between him and the Hamiltons. Yet the story chimes with what Crystal said. The death of the owner, the delay in sorting things out. Should she ask Selena for his name, or would that be strange? She decides against it. ‘How long have you lived here?’ she says instead.
‘Too many years,’ says Selena, shifting Lottie from one shoulder to the other. ‘It would be good to move on, but we can’t afford it. Bill’s gardening business earns enough to keep us going. I should work, but it’ll be hard to find care for Lottie, and besides, we waited so long for her to arrive, I don’t want to leave her. Not yet.’ She kisses the top of the baby’s head. ‘I used to teach yoga; maybe I’ll give private lessons. It works for the woman upstairs.’
Marina takes the chance to talk about Eva. ‘She teaches piano? I’ve heard her playing. She’s very talented, but does she always play in the middle of the night?’
Selena laughs. ‘Yes, and I would complain, but I’m usually awake at that time anyway, with this one, and I find it soothing.’
The baby is stirring, her face puckering. Selena prepares to feed her and Marina looks away politely. Her gaze fixes on the bookcase.
Selena notices. ‘Feel free.’
The books are mostly non-fiction coffee-table books about art and Scandinavian furniture and places to visit. There’s one about interior design which Marina is about to investigate further, when she notices a hardback. The spine is battered and worn. Pulling it out, she discovers a volume of poetry: Donne, Fletcher, Jonson. The book is covered in a fine brown dust; the cover is detached and frayed at one end. She turns it over carefully and examines the first page. The writing is difficult to decipher, but she makes out the names of previous owners. Mr R. Morfitt 1884; Joyce Davidson 1945; Timothy something or other; and a note in faint pencil saying Not to be sold. She frowns and then smiles, remembering. The same words were written in some of the books she found in the attic. Maybe Selena had retrieved this one from there.
The paper wears the ghostly imprint of fingerprints. The breath of book lovers is caught inside its pages. She turns the stiff, yellowing pages and experiences an emotion akin to when she’s close to old art and ancient places. Marina picks out memories of poetry lessons at school and remembers a few lines of Donne:
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.
She glances at Selena to ask about the book, but she is feeding her baby, absorbed in the moment. It seems intensely private and Marina looks away, but the image is fixed. Mother and child. Tears prick her eyes as she returns the book to its place and brushes the dust from her fingers. She takes out the one on interior design and opens it randomly at a page about choosing the colour of the walls to suit your personality.
‘You can borrow that if you like,’ says Selena, looking up.
Marina thanks her and takes the book to her seat. Her mood settles as she reads about the calming effect of blues and greens. The wind stirs at the window and the gauzy curtains flutter in the breeze, moving formlessly like a couple of ghosts.
Connie
May 1964
As Connie ran from the house, a young woman was approaching, emerald coat buttoned tightly. The woman checked her watch as she drew close and Connie wanted to say, ‘Don’t go inside!’ Not that she knew the woman was intending to, of course, but there was something about her – a slight uncertainty, a kind of nervousness – that made Connie suspect they were in the same predicament.
She didn’t speak, however; didn’t even pause. She had to get away, as far and as fast as she could. So instead, she chased along the roads and through the common before finally stopping to rest, breathing deeply, letting the sunshine warm her face as she took in the grassy scent and the sweetness of the blossom that frothed amongst the trees. Yet nothing could obliterate the smell of that dreadful house – its chemical tang laced with rottenness. It was as if she could taste it.
A passing woman, pushing a pram with silver wheels that flashed in the sunlight, glanced at her with disdain. Connie looked down at herself. She was a sight, with her dress awry and her make-up smudged from crying.
Straightening her dress, she thought back to her predicament. She should choose what to do with her body – and her baby – but did she really have a choice? She would never be granted a proper, clean operation by Doctor Franklin, or any other doctor for that matter. At the same time, she couldn’t, wouldn’t be subjected to a backstreet abortion. The memory of the spikes and the pump brought a fresh wave of nausea and she took deep breaths, forcing back the bile. How did those things work? How much would it hurt? She put her hand to her belly and blinked. Tears rising, she galvanised herself and headed for home.
A man with ears like handles and sandy-coloured hair stood at the end of the path alongside the house. He was smoking, cigarette pinched between thumb and first finger, taking fierce drags. He stared at Connie, rising on the balls of his feet like a boxer. She lifted her chin and tightened her fists, scowled and then regretted it. He seemed like what her mother would have called a ne’er-do-well, in scruffy jeans and a zipped-up dark blue Harrington jacket despite the heat, his wiry body tensed for a fight.
Disconcerted, Connie turned in at number 24. Reluctant to shut herself away in the flat, she followed the path around the side of the house and, using the key Kenneth had recently given her, unlocked the padlock on the gate. Another one of his security measures. Last week, she’d heard him yelling at Mrs Kolinski for leaving the front door open. Mrs Kolinski hadn’t reacted, only closed the door quietly in that calm way she had and continued up the stairs with Eva.
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