Above them Mrs Kolinski began to play. She was practising scales, running her fingers effortlessly up and down the keys. The scales transformed into a beautiful piece and they both looked up. Connie thought Dorothy must be as taken by the sound as she was, but when she glanced back, the woman’s face was blank, as unaffected by music as she was by art. It was hard to believe that Johnny was her son.
Dorothy spoke again. ‘You must understand that I am Johnny’s mother and his interests come first.’ She leaned forward and picked fluff from Connie’s sleeve. ‘But that’s not to say I don’t care about you. The thing is, sometimes men and boys need to get on with the important things in life and we must deal with these other decisions – these female matters – ourselves. Why don’t you come back with me this afternoon?’ She leaned a little closer. ‘I told you there are options. If you don’t want to take the medication, there are other things you can do.’
Connie moistened her lips. Why wouldn’t this woman leave her alone? If only she hadn’t spoken to her in the first place. She should have found someone else to confide in.
Dorothy was still talking. ‘There are couples who are desperate for their own child. Good people who will give your baby a far better life than you could. They have money, status, all the things that people like us don’t have.’
People like us. Connie stared back at her. She didn’t feel remotely connected to Dorothy.
‘I only ask that you think about it,’ said Dorothy. ‘Please don’t shackle my son.’
She turned, clearly deciding she’d said her piece, and headed down the stairs. Instead of following, Connie opened the door to the flat and stepped inside; the shop and her father would have to wait. She leaned against the wall, heart thumping. A film of sweat had gathered on her forehead. In the last few weeks, her inner temperature had rocketed. The vomiting had stopped, but smells still set her off: sour milk, Victor’s aftershave. The sickly scent of Dorothy’s breath. She sat down, head in her hands. Dorothy’s loyalties lay with her son. A mother would do anything for her child.
Closing her eyes, she tried to conjure Johnny’s face. The image blurred even though it had only been a few months. That last time, the day before he left, it was incredible to think she had been pregnant. Cells multiplying. Her body creating while she had lain motionless beside him. She groaned, feeling her loss as a wrenching pain. She had to see Johnny. He would write. She knew he would, but in the meantime, she must find a way to buy a ticket to Paris. Rousing herself, she went into her bedroom and took out her mother’s jewellery box.
The bell jangled as she went inside the shop. Harry was balancing on a stool behind the counter. He wore a black jumper, his usual drainpipes and a checked flat-cap.
‘Connie,’ he said, almost toppling from his perch when he saw her. ‘I’ve missed you.’
He dragged off the cap and held it over his heart. He was known for his hats. His father had been a hatmaker. A gambler too. When Harry was small, the shop had gone bust. Harry’s father had disappeared and the bailiffs had come. But wily Harry had hidden a stack of the hats and when his mother had begged and borrowed and built up a grocer’s to replace the hat shop, Harry had worn them to remember.
His mother emerged from the back. Short and round, the reverse of her son, she shot Connie a suspicious look before asking after her father.
‘He’s not too bad, thank you for asking, Mrs Hachette.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ She busied herself, stocking a shelf with tins of corned beef, eyeing Connie through the display.
‘She thinks you broke my heart,’ Harry whispered across the counter.
Connie hoped she hadn’t. Harry didn’t deserve that. They had only been out once, to the pictures – but he’d brought her chocolates as well as a bunch of violets.
She asked for half a pound of cheese. Harry sliced and weighed, laid the cheese on waxed paper and popped in an extra piece. ‘Anything else?’
‘Half a dozen eggs.’
He fetched them, juggling to make her laugh.
The bell jangled and a woman with a small child anchored on her hip came in. She was brandishing a bottle and wanting vinegar from the barrel out the back. Forced to leave her post, Mrs Hachette frowned and disappeared.
Connie took her chance. ‘I need a favour,’ she said in a low voice.
Harry looked at her. ‘What is it?’
The customer set down her toddler.
‘I’ve got jewellery.’
‘Again? You’re not serious.’
‘Please, Harry.’ She put her hand on his arm. The necklace she’d asked him to pawn last time had been to raise money for Johnny’s ticket. Now she had to pay for her own.
He shook his head in exasperation. ‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘Nothing.’
He packed the eggs, frowning. ‘Then why are you pawning your mum’s jewellery? You’ll regret it.’
‘I won’t regret it,’ she said quietly, ‘because I’ll get it back.’
He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ‘It’s not her wedding ring, is it?’
‘No, of course not. That’s at home.’ Safe beneath a floorboard in her room where she’d once kept her childhood treasures.
‘But I don’t understand. If you’re not in trouble, why do you need so much money?’ He eyed her suspiciously. ‘Are you ill?’
‘Do I look ill?’
‘No,’ said Harry, softening as he took the opportunity to admire her. ‘You look lovely.’
Despite herself she smiled. Harry gave her straightforward compliments. Johnny had only ever talked about the line of her neck or the curve of her cheek, as if she were a painting or a sculpture.
Harry wasn’t giving up. ‘Are you going somewhere? Is that what you need the money for?’
She shook her head.
He leaned forward. ‘You are. I can tell. Where are you going?’
It was hard lying to Harry. She lowered her voice. ‘It’s only for a short time and you mustn’t tell.’
‘Is it to do with Johnny?’
She looked away guiltily.
‘You’re going to Paris, aren’t you?’
She bit her lip and nodded.
‘What about your dad? It’s not as if he won’t notice.’
‘He’ll be in Whitby.’
‘You won’t go with him?’
‘He’s better off without me . . . Just him and his sister.’
‘Has he agreed to that?’
She shrugged. He hadn’t said yes yet, but he would eventually, after she had convinced him. Besides, she genuinely believed he would relax if he didn’t have to worry about her.
‘Still. I can’t believe you’re going behind his back,’ said Harry.
‘Don’t say that.’
Maybe he heard the hurt in her voice because he stopped speaking. She touched his hand again. ‘Come on Harry, you’ve always been a good friend and right now I need your help. Please trust me.’
He sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll have to.’
‘Thank you.’ She slid the bag across the counter.
Opening it up, he gave a low whistle. ‘All of this?’
Harry’s mother reappeared, brandishing a bottle of vinegar. Taking the bag, Harry stuffed it under the counter. Connie counted out the money she owed him for the groceries. Harry took it, holding her fingers for too long.
‘When?’ she asked quietly.
‘Day after tomorrow, maybe.’
She nodded. ‘Thank you. I owe you.’
‘Best not say that.’ He smiled, but the sparkle had gone from his eyes and as he rang open the till and tucked her money away, she felt a snag of regret, a memory of violets. He was a good sort, Harry.
19
Marina
January 1992
Marina broods about Kenneth Quip coming into her flat and rooting amongst her things. Not that she has evidence, but still, she has an imagination and in her mind’s eye she sees him clawing through her drawers, yanking open cupbo
ard doors, scanning greedy eyes across her desk.
She telephones Wayne and asks him if the landlord has got any further with sorting the heating. She doesn’t mention her suspicions and nothing he says suggests he knows that Quip has been already. On the contrary, he is apologetic and promises to hurry him up. Maybe she’s got it wrong – although if it’s not Quip who’s been in the flat, that’s even more worrying. Still, despite everything, she wants him to come. It’s the perfect excuse to have contact.
Marina continues with Agata’s manuscript. Agata has escaped to England via Kindertransport. Her parents are in the concentration camp and Marina’s heart breaks as she pictures the little girl alone on a train, clutching her belongings in a single bag. On impulse, she decides to learn more about the subject. She takes a quick look through the Yellow Pages and finds a library a short drive away.
Grabbing her coat, she leaves the house and jumps into her car. The engine takes coaxing before it splutters into life, but she sets off, driving to the end of the street and joining the traffic. The common is ragged today, grass patchy, trees bare. The weather is dull, the sky colourless. She has a yearning for home and its wide-open spaces, the sight of the horse on the hill.
Fifteen minutes of being in traffic and she pulls into a side road. The library is a dusty Victorian building. Inside, Marina enquires about past copies of newspapers and is sent to a room along the corridor. It has high windows and cracked linoleum and reminds her of an old classroom. Here, another woman gives her a quick explanation of how to use microfilm and shows her the filing cabinets where the reels are stored in boxes.
There are hundreds to choose from and Marina dithers. How far back should she go? Finally, she selects October 1936, slots the reel into place, loads it correctly, brings up the images and adjusts the focus, using the buttons to scroll. It’s a local paper dealing with local issues, but still, there’s plenty of mention of Hitler and the threat of war and the rise of Oswald Mosley and the Blackshirts. She comes across an article about the march in Cable Street and reads about barricades and local men fighting with makeshift weapons and women flinging debris from their windows. It reminds her of a castle under siege and she feels a thrill imagining these people routing the fascists, and then a sadness understanding what Agata had faced.
She returns the reel, selects another and this time she reads about the Second World War, the bombing and the Blitz, brave boys and D-Day, references to concentration camps and refugees. She reads about the Jewish population in London. She thinks of Natalia Kolinski and Eva as well as Agata, and tries to understand what life would have been like for them.
Her stomach growls. More than an hour has passed. She glances around. Most of the visitors are older than Marina, but she catches the eye of a young woman with braids and they exchange a complicit smile.
Next, she picks out a reel from the 1950s. Now she reads about rock and roll and a new dance hall. She reads about the Windrush generation, the hostility of signs on boarding houses and hotels – No Blacks No Dogs No Irish. It’s the same old discrimination, the same old hate-filled speech. History lurching forwards, repeating itself. She glances at the girl with braids and sees that she is looking at the same period. Another complicit smile – although it’s more of a grimace this time – and Marina pushes into the 1960s. If only it was so easy in real life to swipe away the past.
She chooses more reels. Demonstrations, Beatlemania, women’s rights. Local crime, a burglary or two, a story about a sixteen-year-old boy called Peter who had a penchant for pickpocketing. Marina smiles at the alliteration. She is still smiling when she reads about a spate of robberies in south London – a post office, a jeweller’s, a builder’s yard, a bank. The last apparently went badly wrong: a security guard had disturbed the gang and was viciously attacked. The offenders were subsequently caught. There are three captioned mugshots, and Marina recognises Kenneth Quip. He seems older than the other men. The first has short cropped dark hair, the second has lighter hair and ears that stick out like handles.
Marina leans forward examining this second man and another memory chimes, from reading through various newspapers when she was younger, trying to find out what happened to her mother: a body pulled from the lake at Tooting Common. She remembers staring at the photo of the victim – a mugshot, an ex-prisoner. She’d reread the story many times, like all the stories she’d found then, searching for some kind of connection. Now she feels a link between that memory and the man in the picture before her. What date had that been? It must have been some time in 1964 because that was the year she’d been researching.
Quickly she grabs another reel and scrolls through. Finding nothing, she tries again and this time she comes across the headline. Body Found in Lake Identified. She leans closer and stares into the face of the victim. Frank Dennis. Was his death an accident, the paper asks, or was he murdered? There are details of the robberies he’d been involved in, including the bank job. Frank had initially been charged with attacking the guard, but afterwards the accusation had been rescinded. All three members of the gang had done time, and one of them had died in prison. Most of the money had been recovered, but not all of it. What had happened to the rest?
Marina rubs her eyes. Maybe she needs glasses. Neither Ruth nor David have bad eyesight, but of course, that is irrelevant. Two out of three men dead. What are the chances of that? The facts coincide with what Victor told her, although he didn’t mention the possible murder of Frank Dennis. What had he actually said? That his death had been convenient.
The woman in charge announces that there are thirty minutes until the library closes. People get ready to leave. Quickly, Marina positions the article correctly and prints.
On the way home, Marina takes a detour and parks close to Crystal’s shop.
Inside, there is a smell of burning incense. Crystal is sitting at the counter reading a manuscript, but when Marina comes in, she greets her warmly.
‘Have you come to teach a class?’
Marina smiles. ‘Not exactly, but I did think about it.’
‘Wonderful,’ says Crystal, her eyes glinting. ‘Why don’t I make you a cup of tea while you get acquainted with the classroom?’
She gestures to the ceiling, and Marina does as she’s been bid, making her way to the far end of the shop and climbing the staircase to the first floor. There is a table in the centre, surrounded by plastic chairs. Two of the walls are lined with shelves of battered books. A further bookcase is laden with teaching materials. It’s a possibility she thinks, running the fingers of one hand across the spines, returning to teaching, or at least combining it with her editing, and Crystal seems like a genuine person. It would be a reason to stay, to throw down roots in London. Is that what she wants?
She moves to the window and spots Mrs Hyde hurrying past. What a strange woman she is, scurrying like a mouse. Victor hadn’t liked her. What had he said? Vinegary and sly. Kenneth’s right-hand woman. Going into people’s flats without permission. Does she still have spare keys? It strikes Marina that it might have been Dorothy who had been inside her flat that time, not the landlord at all.
Marina goes back downstairs. Crystal has been waylaid by a customer, an elderly man. She has a book in her hand and is clearly recommending it to him. She slips a packet of biscuits into his bag along with the book. ‘No charge,’ she says.
While she is busy, Marina examines the collage of postcards on the wall. Welcome to York. Greetings from Whitby. If the postcards weren’t trapped behind glass, she would love to turn them over and read the writing on the back. Who sent them and to whom? There are several arty postcards amongst them, which seems incongruous. Leonardo and Raphael. Christ with a crown of thorns. The Madonna in prayer. Marina breathes in the scent of incense and has a sense that she is missing something.
‘Quaint, aren’t they?’ says Crystal, appearing beside her. Marina turns. The elderly man is ensconced on the window seat drinking a cup of tea.
Marina agrees. ‘Were th
ey part of what was left behind?’
‘Yes, along with the photos and the sign.’
‘Strange to leave something so personal’
‘Too much like hard work to get rid of it all, I expect. It’s interesting though, after you mentioned it the other day, I started trying to remember why there had been the delay – with the will, I mean. I’m pretty sure it was something to do with a missing family member who should have inherited, but I can’t remember who it was or why they didn’t.’
Marina is intrigued. Maybe at some point there was someone living with Thomas. How can she find out? Somerset House perhaps. She could find out if he was married.
Another customer comes in and Crystal goes to serve her. While they are talking, Marina looks more closely at the art postcards. The colours have dulled but she can still appreciate something of their original richness. She touches the glass and a tingling sensation travels through her fingers and along her arm. Stepping away, she laughs at herself. She has never been religious, despite trips to church with David, and there’s no danger of her converting now.
Still, the pictures resonate. Especially the one of the Madonna. She recalls a school trip to the National Gallery. What had they learned about religious art? The artists had used the most expensive colours when depicting the Virgin Mary. That blue. What was it called? Ground from a precious stone, lapis lazuli. Even on a faded postcard, its beauty is obvious.
The original must be spectacular.
20
Connie
June 1964
The basement was worse than Connie had imagined.
Victor was out, thank God, and she hoped he wouldn’t return before she could at least sluice the black-stained walls and sweep and mop the floor. He had already removed the mouldy carpet, rolling it up as if there was a body inside and dumping it at the front of the house.
Harry had failed. When she’d gone to the shop to ask him whether he’d pawned her jewellery, his mother had sent him to the back and served Connie herself. Cutting the cheese, her movements were rapid – slicing, stinting – and then, lips thin, she had pushed the packet across the counter, taken the money and muttered, ‘Leave him alone. Girls like you.’
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