‘Where were you before?’
A smile plays on his lips. ‘In digs.’
‘In the same area?’
‘Tooting Common.’
‘Why did you move to Harrington Gardens?’
He taps his cigarette again. ‘I’m not sure that’s your business.’
Has she overstepped the mark? Flustered, she turns a page.
He narrows his eyes and then changes his mind. ‘I fell out with the landlady.’
She waits, hoping he’ll continue, and he obliges. ‘She didn’t like the relationship I had with her daughter who, in fact, became my wife. Not that we’re married anymore. Are you?’
‘No.’ She shifts uncomfortably and moves on by asking him about his work.
‘Think Arthur Daley,’ he replies, ‘or Del Boy. Wheeling and dealing.’
‘Really?’
He laughs. ‘Actually, I was a supplier of goods to businesses.’
‘Local businesses?’
‘Yes, mainly. Second-hand dealerships, bookshops, that type of thing.’
She lets this information sink in and makes a guess. ‘Did you supply books to Thomas Littleton?’
He looks surprised. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘How long did you live at number 24?’
‘Not long. I moved there in the summer, got married three or four months after that and we went to live with the mother-in-law – the aforesaid landlady.’ He makes a face, rolling his eyes, which Marina pretends not to notice.
He looks at her curiously. ‘Why do you need to know this?’
‘Background information.’ She smiles sweetly, feeling only vaguely guilty at the lie. ‘I want to get the story right and it sounds as if you have an excellent memory.’
Her flattery works. He puffs himself up.
The waitress comes and sets down his food. While he eats, Marina warms her hands on the second mug of coffee and makes small talk. She has a list of questions in her head, but she doesn’t want to spook Victor, so when he finishes and is smoking again, she skips most of them and gets to the point.
‘Eileen Clarke who lived in Flat 2 found the baby. Did you know her?’
‘Oh yes. Wild as they come.’
She ignores his comment. ‘Do you know where she is now?’
‘No idea. Like I said, I only lived in the flat for a few months – but she was American so I suppose she might have gone home.’
‘Were you in the house when they found the baby?’
He gives a surreptitious glance at the counter and then takes a silver hip flask from his pocket and pours liquid into his tea. ‘No. I was staying the night at my old digs – with my girlfriend – the aforesaid.’ He winks.
She leaves the topic alone. ‘What do you remember about the other tenants?’ She glances at her notes. ‘How about Dorothy Light?’
He pulls a face. ‘Vinegary woman. Always snooping about, far too close to the landlord.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘If you know what I mean.’
‘They were having an affair?’
‘Most people thought so.’
If Marina was worried about Victor not wanting to talk, she isn’t now. He is a man who likes the sound of his own voice. She presses ahead. ‘So, she wasn’t married.’
‘Separated.’
‘She lived alone?’
‘No, she had a son, Johnny. Always arguing from what I recall and then he ran off. I think actually that upset Dorothy more than she admitted.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘Paris.’
‘Paris? Why?’
‘He fancied himself as an artist.’
An artist. Her mind flies to the attic, to the paintings and the brushes. ‘Was he any good?’
‘How should I know? He was a time-waster.’ A look of dislike crosses Victor’s face.
No love lost there then.
‘Where is she now?’
‘The mother? Probably still in the house.’
‘No, she was in Flat 3, wasn’t she? There’s a Mrs Hyde there now.’
‘That’s her,’ says Victor waving his cigarette around. ‘Married again.’
‘Ah.’ Marina hadn’t thought of that. Dorothy Light had become Dorothy Hyde. ‘What happened to Mr Hyde?’
‘Did a runner from what I remember. A wastrel, living off her and the social.’
‘What about the first husband?’
‘Left her too – at least he wasn’t living in the house in 1964 if that’s your question. He did visit though. Now he was a nasty piece of work, as well as a wastrel. Older than her, he marched at Cable Street, on the wrong side – a Blackshirt.’
Marina had learned about Cable Street at school. Fascists marching through the East End, but ultimately stopped by local people. Victor goes up in her estimation for condemning the Blackshirts.
‘You said that she and Kenneth were close.’
He laughs again. ‘I’m pretty sure she was his paramour.’
Strange choice of words. In fact, he has an archaic way of speaking. Maybe it’s an attempt to make himself seem clever.
‘And his spy of course. I swear she used to snoop in people’s flats.’
‘She had keys?’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘So why do you think she’s stayed in the house for so long?’
‘I told you, she was pretty cut up about her son’s disappearing trick. I suspect she’s still waiting for him to come home. Maybe she reckons he won’t find her if she moves.’ He gives a hollow laugh. ‘I can’t see him turning up though, not after all these years.’
‘So, they’re still estranged?’
‘I guess so.’ He stubs out his cigarette and looks at his watch. ‘No offence, but time and tide and all that.’
Marina quickly asks him about Mrs Kolinski, but he doesn’t recall much about her. ‘She was foreign,’ is all he can say.
‘And the landlord, Kenneth, was next on the scene. Is that right?’
‘I think so, but like I said I was absent on the day.’
‘What was Kenneth like?’
‘Tough as an old goat. Spent most of his youth inside.’
‘Prison?’
‘Yes.’
‘What for?’
‘Robbery.’ He lights another cigarette, takes a drag and blows out a smoke ring. ‘The thing is, he had a reputation.’
‘What for?’
‘Double-crossing his mates.’
‘How?’
Victor coughs and taps his finger to his nose. ‘Loose lips and all that.’
She tries not to show her eagerness. ‘It would be interesting to know more about him.’
He raises his eyebrows cynically. ‘More background information?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’
She frowns. ‘Do you know where he is?’
He shakes his head. ‘The old dog keeps his whereabouts close, but wherever he is, the house will be as secure as Fort Knox.’
‘Why?’
Victor laughs. ‘Kenneth was paranoid. Although I must say, with the number of people who were after him, I’m not surprised.’
‘Why were they after him?’
He taps the side of his nose again. ‘Honour amongst thieves.’ Marina is getting fed up of his clichés. ‘Or lack of it. He stole from his mates. Common knowledge.’
‘What happened?’
‘Kenneth and his gang went to prison for armed robbery. A lot of the money they stole wasn’t recovered by the police and it’s unclear what happened to it. However, when Kenneth came out, he was a lot richer than when he went in.’
‘Why didn’t the police go after him again?’
‘I guess he covered himself. He was meticulous,’ Victor adds. ‘He loved to tell us that. Never stopped, in fact.’
‘What about the rest of the gang? Didn’t they try and claim it?’
‘One of them died in prison,’ says Victor, ‘and the third – Frank – had a longer sen
tence because he injured a guard.’
‘Really?’
‘Allegedly. The accusation got overturned, they let him out and then he died.’ Victor stubs out his cigarette and grimaces. ‘Conveniently.’
There is a silence while Marina processes this tale of dishonour amongst thieves. ‘So, if they’re all dead,’ she says slowly, ‘why is Kenneth still paranoid?’
‘Aye, there’s the rub.’
Marina raises her eyebrows at Victor’s unexpected Shakespeare.
‘The fact is, Kenneth has always been stupid. Always looked in the wrong direction, never noticed what was going on.’
‘And you’re sure you don’t know his address?’
‘No, but it shouldn’t be too hard to find out. He’s still the landlord at Harrington Gardens.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Well now you do.’
He grins at her and an image of the old man shuffling with his stick in the garden comes to Marina’s mind. Now she has all the more reason to talk to him. The boiler is the perfect excuse. She will call Wayne and hurry him along.
Outside the house, she collides with a teenage boy wearing owl glasses who mumbles an apology and avoids eye contact as he lollops up the steps, taking them two at a time.
As soon as she steps inside her flat she knows that someone has been there. There is a scent. A faint sour smell like sweat with a sweetness underneath.
Leaving the door open, she stands in the middle of the room, heart banging. Are the curtains wider? Are the papers on the desk disturbed? She walks slowly into the kitchen and examines the window, looking for signs of a break-in. The scent is here too. She scans the cupboards and the worktops. The flap on the boiler is hanging down. Did she leave it like that? Her mind whirrs. She can’t remember. Then it clicks. It must have been the landlord letting himself in with a key, checking the heating as Wayne requested.
‘How dare he,’ she mutters as she stalks about the house trying to find evidence of intrusion. It’s all very well her wanting him to come but to enter the flat without her knowledge is different altogether. She is fuming, opening drawers and cupboards. The box with the shawl lies on her bed. What if he looked inside? She grows angry imagining Kenneth Quip rooting around. Would he have recognised the shawl? Would he have guessed who she is?
She steps back out into the hall. The stairway is dark. The house still. No baby crying. No music playing. No creaks or groans. Yet she is sure there is something. A sound creeping beneath the silence. What is it? Breathing. A heart beating. Blood creeping through veins. Impossible. She’s being foolish. Click. A door closes. She breathes heavily and the piano music begins. Not Chopin. This music is more robust. After a moment, she goes inside her flat and double-locks the door.
17
Eva
January 1992
Eva has a pupil. He is by far her most talented. His name is Toby and he plays Rachmaninov with panache.
She hears his clumsy tread on the stairs followed by a pounding on her door. As soon as she lets him in, he hangs his head and blushes furiously.
They talk about music and he speaks quickly and quietly. When their eyes meet, he blinks behind his glasses and blushes again. When he touches the piano keys, he throws back his head and performs.
He is playing now, nearing the end of the lesson. Eva stands beside him, her eyes closed. She is focused and not focused. Part of her mind is caught up with Ron – the telephone call and the request to see her. She had agreed and he had come, bearing gifts of Turkish Delight and a red rose wrapped in cellophane.
They had drunk tea, made small talk, while he had sat in his short-sleeved shirt and jeans, arms crossed and shoulders hunched. Instinctively she knew that if she gave him the signal, their relationship would start again.
Eventually, he had told her about the woman downstairs. Her name was Zoe and she had moved into Flat 2. She was from Wiltshire, had come to London for a change of scene, worked in publishing and wanted to move into journalism. Eva was still, listening to each drop of information, collecting it like rainwater in a tin. When Ron explained what the woman wanted, Eva had surprised Ron and herself by agreeing to see her.
Now, as she listens to Toby, Eva considers more carefully what to expect and what food and drink she will prepare and where the two of them will sit. She looks around the flat, placing the woman first in one chair and then in another. Her gaze is restless. It travels from the armchairs in the room, to Toby’s fingers skittering across the keys, to the table where she has placed Ron’s rose in a vase. It lingers and her mind returns to the memory she had before.
Little Eva. She is jumping up the stairs, holding tight to a woman’s hand. It must be her mother. Who else could it be? In her other hand, she holds a rag doll that has the softest hair and the prettiest smiling face. At the top of the stairs, on the second floor, they step onto the landing. Her mother crouches and presents her with a red rose. Her lips are moving. What is she saying? Her voice is like an echo.
Toby finishes Rachmaninoff and segues seamlessly into Chopin. Suddenly, Eva recalls that it isn’t her mother in the scenario she has been painting. There is music accompanying this memory. Her mother is playing the piano which means she can’t possibly be standing on the landing giving her a rose.
She closes her eyes trying to recall. The soft palm, the scent of the rose and something else. Perfume. It’s sweet and gentle and reminds her of the stars.
Eva’s eyes snap open. That’s not possible. She is muddling memories and mixing up senses. Her head is aching. She touches her temple with her index and middle finger, wills herself to focus until she is back in the role of Little Eva taking the rose. Now she sees that it’s a young woman who is looking at her, and smiling in that lovely way she has, pushing back her thick, dark hair. Her eyes are warm and her expression is kind, though Little Eva knows she is sad because she has seen the same look in her mother.
The memory leaps forward like an old cine film. Now Little Eva is standing again at the top of the stairs, alone this time. The image is strong as if a spotlight is on her and she is about to perform on stage. She is wearing a purple dress that is way too big for her. When she twists, the material swirls and caresses her legs like butterfly wings or feathers. The spotlight shifts until she is slightly off centre. And now there are sounds in the dreamy sequence. The piano behind her and voices below. The voices are arguing and she doesn’t like it so she covers her ears. There is warmth running down her legs and she realises she has wet herself and she is ashamed because her lovely dress is ruined. Tears well in her eyes and she squeezes them away with the palms of her hands. When she looks again, there is a space at the bottom of the stairs. The voices and people have gone.
In the present, Eva concentrates. Chopin is fading. Toby is finishing. He plays the last note. They talk about what he can do to improve. She explains how he can put more expression into his playing, how he can lift his hands more delicately and place them more correctly. She tells him what to practise and they arrange their next lesson.
When he leaves, she closes the door behind him and listens to his clattering tread on the stairs. She smiles, thinking of the contrast between his clumsy feet and his delicate hands. She can identify with such a disconnect, but in her case the disconnect is inside her head.
She crosses the room and touches the rose. A petal falls and she draws back her hand. Her head still aches. She should take an aspirin. Maybe she should call Ron and tell him she has changed her mind about seeing this woman. The prospect has clearly disturbed her. She walks to the window and opens it a crack. A wind is picking up. It stirs the branches of the maple tree and swirls dead leaves across the road. She touches the glass, feels the familiar precariousness as she listens to the call of a lost gull overhead, the sound like an abandoned animal, or a baby crying for its mother.
18
Connie
May 1964
The next morning, Connie came out of her flat and almost immediate
ly Dorothy appeared from hers.
‘There you are, my dear. I’ve been worried about you.’ She clicked on the light.
‘No need,’ replied Connie, but her hands were shaking as she turned her back and closed the door. She’d had a terrible night and spent hours awake, staring into the darkness, thinking about that house, that kitchen, those awful implements.
‘What made you run away?’ said Dorothy. ‘You needn’t have done that, you know. You could have told me how you felt and I would have come with you.’
Her voice was full of reproach. Connie turned to look at her. Such a diminutive figure, in her brown coat, with a funny matching hat like a tea cosy perched on her head. Connie wondered how old she was. Forty, perhaps, which would make her a similar age to her mother when she died, although the two of them couldn’t have been more different in looks, or personality.
‘I changed my mind,’ Connie said.
‘It’s natural to have second thoughts, but Barbara . . .’
‘Barbara?’
‘The lady you spoke to. I explained your situation and she agreed to give you another appointment. We can’t leave the decision for too long, you see.’
Connie did see.
‘Why don’t you give it another chance? We could sit down and thrash out the details. And . . .’ Dorothy paused. ‘There are always the other options.’
‘I don’t want any of them,’ Connie said quietly. As soon as the words escaped her, Connie realised they were true. She hadn’t known she would say them. She hadn’t even known they were inside her head.
Neither of them spoke. It was quiet. Downstairs, Connie could hear the deep rhythm of jazz. Leonard must be out.
The light clicked off. ‘And what about Johnny?’ said Dorothy, making no move to switch it back on.
‘He’ll be in touch.’
‘And if he isn’t?’
Was it Connie’s imagination, or had Dorothy’s voice hardened?
‘Then I’ll deal with the consequences.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Another pause, and then: ‘But you still need to think about Johnny. He’s young. A baby will hold him back. He’ll find out and then what do you think will happen? His life will be over. His ambitions thwarted.’
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