Girls like you. The words had stung. Had she hurt Harry that much? Tears in her eyes, she had hurried away. Halfway along the street, Harry had come running. ‘Connie, wait, you’re killing me.’ Only this time there had been no smile to go with the joke, just an explanation. The owner of the pawn shop had apparently disappeared, along with his haul, including, Connie realised with a wrench, the necklace she had originally pawned. Now Harry had to find another contact, and that would take time.
The problem was, she didn’t have time, which was why she had agreed to clean the flat for Victor, so long as he paid her the going rate. Every little would help.
She stood in the dismal front room, dressed in an old apron. The only view was of the metal stairs leading to ground level. Connie could see the foot of the maple tree, the railings, and the legs of people in the street: first a pram, followed by a mid-length skirt, tights and brogues; then the hem of an emerald coat, smart shoes with buckles, which stopped for a few moments before moving quickly on, just as Mrs Kolinski’s pencil skirt came into view along with Eva’s purple dress, the one that used to be hers.
In the kitchen, Connie looked in a cupboard and wrinkled her nose at a scattering of mouse droppings. They were on the floor too, running along the bottom of the skirting board and in the corners. Victor was going to buy a cat, apparently. Kenneth had agreed to bend the rules.
The smell made Connie retch. She twisted the key and opened the back door, which led onto a square of cement and a set of crooked steps to the garden. She flung the windows wide, trying to at least air the place, then filled a bucket with water, grabbed the Ajax and started cleaning the walls in the front room.
Late afternoon, she heard the voices of Victor and Kenneth. They were standing on the steps, discussing the abandoned carpet.
‘It’s an eyesore,’ said Kenneth, tapping his stick to the rhythm of his words. ‘It attracts attention, the wrong kind of attention. Tramps. Slackers. Criminals. They’ll think this place is empty and in they’ll come, as free as you like.’ On he went, exaggerating.
They were still talking when Connie emerged. Squeezing between the two of them, she mumbled to Victor about finishing off tomorrow and then hurried inside. Her father would be home by now, reading a book, waiting for his tea. She would make toad-in-the-hole from her mother’s recipe book and maybe a fruit flan.
Still. A few more minutes would do no harm. Passing the flat, she climbed the next set of stairs. Mrs Kolinski’s door was ajar. Connie could hear her calling to Eva. The door clicked shut.
Opening the door to the attic, she went up the steep staircase. Johnny had stored his paintings behind an unwanted chest of drawers. Jam jars containing brushes with stiff bristles and paint-splattered handles were stacked against the wall. Connie put the latter in the chest for safekeeping.
Light glinted on a fragment of glass embedded in the floor. She bent to prise it from the wood, remembering how it came to be there. Johnny had wanted Connie to model for his version of The Virgin in Prayer. She’d agreed but, restless, had moved too often. Frustration had turned to anger and Johnny had yelled at her to keep still. When she forgot and moved again, he’d flung a jar against the wall. The glass had shattered and Connie had been the one to clear away the pieces while Johnny had begged her to forgive him. ‘It’s my mother’s fault,’ he’d said. ‘We had a row earlier. She doesn’t understand me. She hates my art. All she wants is for me to cut up carcasses and decapitate cows.’ He’d sat on the floor with his head in his hands, pulling at his hair like a child.
At night, Connie lay in bed imagining the house wrapping her inside its walls. During the day, she kept busy, cleaning the flat, washing and ironing, trying new recipes for her father. She finished cleaning Victor’s rooms and took her payment, but of course it was nowhere near enough to buy a ticket to Paris. She hid the money with her mother’s wedding ring beneath the floorboard in her room, away from temptation. She would find the rest, but first she needed Johnny’s address. Each day she checked the post box and each day her stomach churned with disappointment.
To distract herself, she gathered together a bundle of postcards – some she had bought with Johnny at the National Gallery and some her father had sent her on his quests for rare books. He had travelled to Oxford, Durham, Harrogate. Once he had gone as far as Edinburgh. She made a display of the postcards in the shop, pinning them on the wall by the door.
One day, she pulled on her polka dot dress and struggled to do up the zip. Dragging it off, she threw it on the bed and then sat down in her underwear, touching her belly. The change was slight but undeniable. She groaned and leaned forward with her head in her hands. Her predicament was becoming visible. People would notice and what would they say? She thought of Harry’s mother, and imagined her pointing a finger and muttering words like tart and whore and girls like you. No one would understand.
She took an old sheet from the cupboard, cut it into strips and wound them around her body. Slipping on a different dress, she smoothed the material at the front and thought that it would do. She would wear some of her mother’s larger dresses if she needed to, and avoid seeing people as much as she could, especially Harry who knew her well and might catch her out.
The weeks passed and she kept on binding her belly, only letting herself free at night. The fluttering inside grew stronger. One time, standing at the side of the road waiting to cross, she felt a movement so pronounced that she cried out and passers-by looked at her in alarm.
She wasn’t sure what was worse: the fear of discovery or the waiting. She had to do something. So, she wrote Johnny a letter. Perhaps once she had his address, she could send it to him and he would get used to the idea of the baby before Connie arrived on his doorstep.
In her letter, she told him how much she loved him, that she hoped he loved her too, and that nothing mattered but being together, the three of them. At times, she pictured a happy ending with Johnny in the shop, working alongside her father, but the image never stayed long. Johnny would hate to be confined to four walls. Even the attic, with its view of the sky, had stifled him. Perhaps in Paris he had found a place where he could breathe.
One morning, after a particularly restless night, Connie got up late to find her father slumped in the armchair, face grey, still in his dressing gown.
‘Dad! What’s wrong?’ She ran to him. ‘Has something happened?’
He shook his head, moistened his lips.
‘I’ll get you some water, an aspirin.’
She rushed to the phone box, called the surgery and booked an appointment. Then she gritted her teeth and rang Victor, who was still at his boarding house, and asked him to take them in his car.
By the time she came back, her father looked a little better. She helped him get dressed, and when Victor arrived, they were ready.
At the surgery, Victor and Connie stayed in the waiting room. A few patients sat on the chairs, noses buried in magazines. Connie sat too, picking up a copy of the Reader’s Digest and leafing through. Victor was uncharacteristically quiet, pacing the room, stopping to study a painting – very modern, all bright colours, splashes and sweeps; Johnny would have loved it – with his hands clasped behind his back. She expected Victor to announce the painting was terrible, like a child had done it, but he stayed quiet. He was subdued, not even flirting with the receptionist, as he normally would have done, although she had greeted him by name when they arrived, which seemed odd, now Connie thought about it, since it was she, not Victor, who had made the appointment.
Ten minutes later, her father reappeared, looking brighter. ‘False alarm,’ he said, buttoning his coat.
Later, Connie went to the shop alone because despite her father’s protests, she’d insisted that he rest.
She was sitting at the counter, reading through the letter she’d written to Johnny, when the door opened and Harry walked in. Folding the paper in half, she slipped it into a poetry book.
‘Connie!’ he said, opening his arms and gr
inning as if it was a surprise to see her there. She smiled back at him, glad that she was hidden behind the counter and had taken her time to apply lipstick and rouge before coming to the shop. Did Harry detect a difference? She didn’t think so. His eyes were fixed on her with the same soft admiration he always had, mixed with a sort of hurt.
‘Did you know that the shop next door is closing down?’ he said. ‘If you want that Remington, you’d better hurry.’
Connie looked at him fondly. She’d only mentioned the typewriter to him once, casually, but Harry had remembered her dream of buying it and becoming a writer. To her, now, it seemed like a long-gone childish fantasy, and she felt a sudden, acute pang for the carefree girl she’d once been.
‘I can’t afford it,’ she said.
He patted his pocket and winked. ‘Are you sure?’
Hope rushed through her. ‘Have you pawned the jewellery?’
‘Might have.’ He grinned.
She clapped her hands. ‘But that’s wonderful. Come on, Harry, tell me. How much did you get?’
He scratched his chin. ‘Well now, let me see . . .’
‘Harry!’
Relenting, he produced a paper bag from his pocket and pushed it across the counter. ‘It’s for a necklace and three bracelets. I can sort out the rest, but I thought this might be enough.’
‘Thank you,’ she said more quietly, although her heart surged with gratitude. ‘I appreciate it, honestly.’
‘I know you do.’ His voice caught a little. From his other pocket, he pulled out a bag of toffees. ‘Your favourites,’ he said, holding them out for her.
She took one, enjoying the sweetness on her tongue.
‘They won’t sell those in France,’ he added.
She laughed. ‘No, but they’ll have other treats.’
He regarded her for a moment. ‘Aren’t you nervous going all that way on your own?’
‘Of course not! And even if I was, it wouldn’t stop me.’
‘No, Connie, I don’t suppose it would. But you can’t blame people for being worried about you.’
She looked at him sharply. ‘You haven’t told anyone else, have you?’
‘Not a soul, cross my heart!’
The grandfather clock struck midday.
‘Listen,’ she said quickly. ‘Would you do something else for me?’
Harry’s eyes lit up, hopeful.
‘Will you check on the shop when I’m gone?’
His face fell and he shrugged. ‘Course.’
She reached beneath the counter for the spare set of keys. Handing them across, their fingers brushed and she drew away quickly, flushing.
‘There’s a key for the flat on there too,’ she said. ‘You can use it if you want a bit of peace.’
‘Thanks,’ he replied. ‘But it won’t be the same without you.’
He sounded wistful. She looked away, her resolve weakening, but she pushed down her feelings and a few minutes later he had gone.
21
Marina
January 1992
The man with the cane is in the garden. Marina spots him as she stands at the kitchen window, eating toast for breakfast. She bolts her food and then dashes outside, rounding the path and catching him before he disappears through the bushes.
It is quiet in the garden at this hour. The morning is misty. Blades of wet grass brush her shoes, damp air clings to her hair. Clothes hang limply on the washing line, forgotten overnight.
‘Mr Quip,’ she calls. The harsh rattle of a magpie answers.
He stops but doesn’t turn. Like an echo, she calls again and this time he moves to face her. He has yellow, rheumy eyes. An overcoat hangs loosely on his body and he wears a trilby. He reminds her of a bird – thin like a heron or a stork.
He has an odd way of standing, leaning awkwardly on the stick as if he both needs it and doesn’t, and she makes an assumption that he is using it as a prop. It is eye-catching – dark wood with a polished silver top. He has a strange way of looking too – his eyes resting on hers for a second before slanting away and scanning the rest of the garden.
Now is her chance to bring up the neglect of the house, to mention the mould beneath the windows, the poor state of the kitchen and the bathroom, the dodgy boiler and the falling plaster. She should confront him too about potentially entering the flat without permission. More than anything though, she should take this chance to lead him into talking about the past.
She draws herself up and steps forward, closing the gap between them. ‘Zoe,’ she says, holding out her hand. ‘I’m your new tenant.’
A moment’s hesitation and then he extends his own. His palm is powdery and dry. His bony fingers are gnarled like claws. He has a string of crudely tattooed numbers on his knuckles.
She lets go of his hand and her desire to complain diminishes. He is so frail, she is sure he must be ill. His left eye weeps; his skin droops. It’s as if he is wasting away. She imagines his body crumbling until there is only a pile of clothes.
‘I was wondering,’ she says, refocusing, ‘when the boiler would be fixed.’
He looks at her blankly, and despite her sympathy, she feels a nudge of frustration.
‘I’m sure Wayne has explained the problem. Maybe you’ve had a look already.’ It’s the closest she can come to accusing him of entering her flat and she pauses, waiting for him to confirm.
He is frowning. His face is gaunt, skin stretched so tight, Marina can see the shape of his skull. She thinks of Death. She thinks of Tarot cards. She thinks of Kenneth with a scythe instead of a cane.
The gate creaks and Mrs Hyde appears at the side of the house holding her empty laundry basket and heading for the forgotten clothes, which, in this weather, can surely be no drier than when they were first pegged out. She halts when she sees the two of them, blinks, mouth open, white breath misting the air. Marina raises her hand, but the woman ignores them both, hurrying to the washing line and pulling down the clothes. The rattle of the magpie comes again. Marina spots the bird in the magnolia tree. One for sorrow. She searches for another. No joy.
Quickly, Mrs Hyde loads the basket with her damp washing and, still without any acknowledgement, scurries away, disappearing around the house.
Kenneth, meanwhile, has barely moved. He coughs and pulls out a handkerchief that he holds to his mouth.
‘I’ll get it fixed,’ he says. His voice is hoarse, the words rasp on his tongue. Marina is reminded of a saw on wood.
‘Do you know how long it will take?’
He pauses. ‘A few days. I’ll do it myself.’
She wants to keep him there, press him further. The boiler is one thing, but Kenneth Quip and the knowledge he has is another. Too late. He is walking away from her, towards the end of the garden, using his stick to part the long grass.
‘I’d like to paint the flat,’ she calls out. ‘The estate agent said it’s all right, but . . .’
He cuts her short, waving his handkerchief, signalling no objection. She can hear him spluttering as he disappears from sight.
Ron is bounding up from the basement as she rounds the front of the house. He stops, surprised to see her.
‘What are you doing out so early?’
‘I was on a mission,’ she replies. ‘Spotted the landlord in the garden and chased him.’
Ron grins. ‘What did you say to him?’
‘I asked him to fix the boiler and he agreed.’
‘Bloody hell. How did you manage that? Charm?’
She grimaces. ‘Not exactly.’ She takes in Ron’s clothes – his casual jacket, shirt and trousers. ‘Off to work?’
‘Yes, but I intended to stop off and tell you the news. I’ve spoken to Eva.’
‘Oh?’
‘I told her about your article and she said she’d be happy to speak to you. In fact, she was interested.’
Marina’s stomach churns. ‘That’s great. When?’
‘This afternoon, at about five?’
She nods eagerly. ‘Perfect. It’s good of her.’
‘Yeah.’ He is blushing. She suspects the candle he holds for Eva has been reignited.
She spends the rest of the day settling on blue as the colour for the walls and driving to the nearest DIY shop to fetch the paint.
When she gets home, she prises off the lid and considers where to start. She knows she should lay a groundsheet and prepare the walls by washing them down and putting masking tape around the edges. This is the method David uses, but David is methodical. Marina is more like Ruth – haphazard. Besides, right now she can’t be bothered. So, she replaces the lid on the paint and digs out a cigarette from the packet she has buried in the wardrobe. As she smokes, she considers what questions to ask Eva.
She settles herself in the armchair and flicks through her notes. She is building a picture of these people from the past: Victor, Kenneth, Eileen, Dorothy. She has met the men and Dorothy, but Eileen is an enigma. Marina knows she is beautiful because she has seen her photograph. She knows that she threw parties with her boyfriend, Leonard Crisp, in the place where Marina is sitting now. Closing her eyes, she pictures a smoky room crowded with people, narrow trousers and short dresses, white boots and floppy hair, dancing in that jerky sixties fashion to the Beatles. Then darkness comes. A punch is thrown. Eileen staggers. Blood drips from her nose.
Marina’s eyes snap open. She is prone to daydreams, but this is something different: sharper – more real; the violence almost visceral. She shudders and jumps up and, to take her mind off ghosts, sets to decorating after all. Not bothering with the preparation, she drags the furniture away from one wall and slaps on paint with fierce, haphazard strokes.
All the time she works, she is thinking. Her mind takes her to the attic, and she visualises the brushes, the jam jars, the pictures hidden behind the chest of drawers. The copies of sunflowers and sunsets and starry nights. Had Dorothy’s son painted them as she suspected? He had disappeared to Paris. Had he made it as an artist? His paintings – if they are his – are haunting. Marina recalls the girl in the unfinished sketch, so delicately drawn. A memorable image. She has seen it before. Where?
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