Marina keeps going until the lower section is complete, then climbs on a chair and starts again at a higher level. She doesn’t stop until the whole wall is covered with an uneven coat of dark blue paint. Just as she finishes, it clicks. The bookshop. There was a postcard in the display on the wall. The Virgin in Prayer.
It is dark when Marina steps into the hall. The piano has been playing all afternoon, stopping and starting with varying levels of skill as pupils come and go. Now Eva is playing. The music swells and draws Marina up the stairs.
When she knocks, the piano stops and the door opens quickly. Eva Kolinski must be around thirty, but she seems younger. Dark-haired and olive-skinned with dark circles beneath her eyes, she is dressed in a simple green tunic. She has an entrancing beauty. No surprise Ron is captivated – although she is thin, too thin, with tiny, fragile wrists. Marina is unnerved. Perhaps it’s because of the intense way Eva is looking at her. Or perhaps it’s because Marina has built up this meeting in her mind.
They greet each other and Eva motions to Marina to sit on the sofa. It’s soft and sagging and tired like the rest of the room with its rich combination of muted colours.
The room is cluttered, with old-fashioned furniture, embroidered cushions, dark tapestries, a burnt-orange rug and lamps. A pair of brass candlesticks stands on the mantelpiece beneath a gilt-edged mirror while a silver samovar sits beside the fireplace below. The wallpaper is dark green and the curtains are red velvet. A polished mahogany piano stands against one wall, stacks of sheet music piled on top of it and heaped in a basket next to it. A circular, dark wood table with sculpted legs occupies the middle of the room, and sports a vase with a single, wilting rose.
‘Tea?’ Eva offers.
‘Thank you.’ Marina sits and listens to Eva moving quietly in the kitchen. She notices the bookshelves. There are volumes of poetry and other works written in Polish. Before Marina is tempted to investigate further, Eva reappears carrying a yellow-flowered teapot, matching cups and saucers and a plate of sweet pastries on a tray. She sets the tray on the table, next to the vase, and takes a seat at the piano stool.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ says Marina.
Eva bows her head elegantly and looks at Marina with eyes the colour of chestnuts. ‘Ron said you were writing an article about the abandoned baby.’ She speaks quietly, but there’s an eagerness underlying her tone.
Marina feels a pang at not telling the truth and as with Ron she is tempted to explain to Eva, but something is holding her back, a desire not to prejudice people’s view of her. ‘That’s right.’
‘What made you decide on it as a topic?’
‘Well, I’m interested in moving into journalism. I heard about this story and thought I might be able to come at it from a different angle. I hoped you would be able to help.’
‘I was three, so I’m not sure what use I can be.’
‘Yes, I know,’ says Marina gently, ‘but perhaps you heard your parents talking about it through the years. It must have been a huge story in the house.’
‘My father had died by then.’ Eva speaks simply, clasping her hands together.
Of course. Ron had told her that. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t remember him, actually. He had an accident. A car knocked him down. We were in Oxford Street at the time.’
‘You witnessed it? That’s terrible.’
‘Yes, but it’s all right. I don’t remember that either.’
‘Even so. How tragic.’
‘It was worse, obviously, for my mother. They were trying to make a new life here . . . You know, after the war.’
Marina takes a breath. ‘Where did she meet your father?’
‘In London. They were in a similar situation. They married and had me.’
‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’
‘No, my mother had a miscarriage shortly after my father died.’ Eva hesitates. ‘Apparently, I saw that too.’ She gives a hollow laugh. ‘Bad timing.’
Marina looks at her curiously. Eva is more talkative than she had expected from Ron’s description.
‘It sounds upsetting,’ she says, and waits for a few moments before leading Eva back to the abandoned baby, asking her if she recalls anything at all about the day they found her.
Eva frowns and shakes her head slowly. ‘I know the story because everybody did and I expect I listened to people gossiping, but as you say, all that came later.’
Marina is quiet, sensing that Eva has more to say.
‘What is strange, though . . .’ She stops. She is staring across the room at the bookcase. Marina follows her gaze. There’s a rag doll propped on a shelf.
‘Yes?’
She shakes her head. ‘Nothing.’
Marina lets go of her disappointment. Then, in return for Eva’s honesty, she offers a personal detail about herself. She tells her that one reason she is interested in the case is that she was adopted.
Eva’s eyes widen. ‘Adopted?’
Marina nods. ‘I suppose that’s why I’ve always been interested in people’s origins. It’s a bit of an obsession. Recently I’ve been editing the memoirs of a Jewish lady who had to leave her parents behind in Poland. It’s an awful story.’ She stops talking, aware there is nothing she can say to Eva because she already knows.
There is a silence. Then Eva throws up her hands. ‘I’m sorry! I forgot your tea.’
She hurries across to the tray, pours rapidly and hands Marina a cup and saucer and a pastry. Eva’s hand shakes, the tea spills into the saucer, and she apologises again. Marina tells her not to worry, but she is intrigued: she senses a complexity about Eva which she would like to understand.
Instead of sitting down, Eva paces the room. She stops in front of the rag doll on the shelf. ‘Have you ever wondered,’ she says, ‘how reliable your memories actually are?’
‘Definitely. Memory is peculiar.’
‘Do you think we make up things?’ Eva takes the doll and holds it to her face. ‘Do you think we piece together bits of information that other people give us and form stories to suit ourselves?’
Marina shifts in her seat. She can sense a change in Eva, but she isn’t sure what it means.
‘Take this doll, for example. I remember that somebody gave it to me, but I can’t remember who. Yet it feels significant for some reason.’
‘Was it your mother?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘I had a rag doll like that once upon a time. They must have been all the rage when we were girls. I called mine Jemima. How about you?’
Eva tilts her head. ‘Sarah.’ Her eyes light up. ‘That’s just come back to me. I’m sure I didn’t know that five minutes ago.’
‘I bet you did,’ said Marina. ‘You just haven’t thought about it for a while.’
‘Maybe.’ She sets the doll back in its place.
‘But you don’t remember where it came from.’
‘No. But I think it was from someone important.’ She returns to her seat, frowning. ‘And that makes me feel strange.’
Marina raises her eyebrows. She has never met anyone like Eva. A mix of openness and reserve.
‘Chopin,’ she says suddenly, swivelling around and playing a few bars. ‘My mother’s favourite piece, and yet – I know this sounds odd – it scares me.’
‘Maybe you associate the music with a bad experience.’
‘Yes. I’ve considered that.’ She plays a few more notes and then turns again and smiles. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being maudlin.’
They talk for a while longer. Marina shares more about herself, telling Eva about her teaching job in Bristol and when she lived abroad. ‘Actually, I was in Poland for a while.’
‘You’re lucky,’ Eva says wistfully.
‘Have you visited?’ says Marina gently.
‘No.’
‘Your mother didn’t . . . ?’
She shakes her head. ‘There was no one there for her, you see.’
M
arina nods, understanding. A terrible sense of sadness floods through her. ‘Still. It’s not too late.’
‘Perhaps.’ Eva looks at her watch and grimaces. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got another pupil coming. I should get ready.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Marina stands. ‘Thank you for talking to me.’
‘I haven’t been much help.’
‘It’s not a problem. It’s been good to meet you.’
Eva smiles warmly. ‘It’s been good to meet you too. You should come again.’
‘I’d like that. I think we have a lot in common.’ Marina says the words to be polite, but as she speaks, she realises she means them, and that she would like to see Eva again. Taking one last glance at the rag doll, she heads back to her flat.
22
Connie
July 1964
Connie stopped looking at herself in the mirror and undressed in the dark, unwinding the strips of sheet, grateful that she had made it through another day with no one knowing the truth.
She checked the post each morning and often passed Dorothy on the stairs clutching hers.
A letter arrived for her father with a postmark from York. Connie inspected the envelope and stared vainly into the box for more. What was the point of having the money to buy a ticket to Paris if she didn’t have Johnny’s address?
Despite the hour, music blared from Flat 2.
Kenneth came along in his dressing gown and slippers. Ignoring Connie and muttering about the noise, he rapped on the door with his cane. Eileen appeared, glamorous in a pale green dress, surrounded by a fug of smoke.
‘Turn it down,’ growled Kenneth. ‘The whole bloody street can hear you.’
‘Sorry, darling.’ She gave him a beguiling smile. ‘It’s the end, you see, and we’re celebrating.’
The end of what? Their West End show? Or maybe their relationship. If she were Eileen she would get rid of Leonard sharpish, Connie thought.
‘Well, celebrate more quietly,’ snapped Kenneth. ‘I’ve told you before.’
Eileen smiled sweetly again. Seeing Connie, she waved.
‘Did you get your audition?’ Connie asked.
Eileen grinned and nodded. Lucky her, getting away from this place, this house. Imagine travelling all the way to America, to Broadway. Maybe after Paris, when they had saved up some money, she and Johnny could go to New York. There were so many places she would like to visit.
She made breakfast, cracking eggs and sizzling bacon, and frying a slice of bread in the fat as her father preferred.
‘Not eating?’ he said, shuffling into the kitchen.
Despite Doctor Franklin giving him the all-clear, he looked even more tired than usual. Sitting heavily, he tucked his serviette into his collar. He hadn’t shaved properly and wore yesterday’s clothes. Connie’s stomach twisted with guilt as she bent to kiss his cheek, breathing in the scent of the cologne her mother had bought him, and another, medicinal smell. Maybe the doctor had given him a prescription after all. It would be just like her father to pretend nothing was wrong.
‘I’ll have toast,’ she said, eyeing the runny yolk of his egg and placing the letter from York on the table.
His mood lightened as he picked up the envelope and sliced it open with a knife.
‘Good news?’
‘The book has arrived and it’s mine if I want it.’
‘What is it?’ asked Connie, leaning forward to see.
‘It’s a first edition copy of Wuthering Heights.’ He smiled at her. ‘Emily Brontë. One of your mother’s favourites.’
She nodded, remembering, and a lump formed in her throat. The book would be expensive and hard to sell in the shop.
‘What’s the condition?’
He scanned the letter, reading out extracts. ‘Two twentieth-century inscriptions of ownership, in pencil . . . joints and spine ends expertly restored . . . front board professionally reattached . . . altogether a very good copy.’ He looked up, eyes sparkling. ‘How about that?’
‘Sounds perfect,’ said Connie, pleased to see him animated. ‘When are they planning to sell?’
‘The owner is away. So, the beginning of August.’
‘In that case, you could combine fetching the book with a visit to Aunt Maud like we said. Imagine! You could take three weeks off.’
‘I was thinking about that,’ he admitted, peering over his glasses at Connie. ‘Although I’d much prefer it if you came with me.’
She bit into her toast. If her calculations were correct, the beginning of August was two months before the baby was due. Even if she could hide her condition from her father, she’d never be able to avoid the eagle eye of her aunt.
No. She would time her trip to Paris to coincide with his visit, leaving Harry to look after the shop. The plan was sorted. All she needed was for Johnny to write.
The postman might not have guessed Connie’s condition, but he’d reached his own conclusions about why she was so eager for his arrival each day, and made regular quips about beaus and boyfriends and billet-doux.
One morning, he turned up grinning.
‘You’re in luck.’ He handed her a parcel. Miss Connie Littleton, it said, 24 Harrington Gardens. She recognised Johnny’s beautiful blue calligraphic writing – the hand of a proper artist – and her heart soared as she ran straight up to the attic. Taking her time, she examined the return address: a boulevard in Paris. An address; at last.
Slowly, heart pumping, she tugged at the string and peeled off the sticky brown tape. Inside she found an envelope and a package wrapped in silver paper. She set aside the envelope and opened the gift.
She unfolded a shawl, the colour of the painting in the gallery. The Virgin in Prayer.
That blue. It was lustrous, more vivid than any colour she had ever seen.
Johnny had told her about the paint. It had once been more precious than gold, and had come from the most prized stone in all the world, lapis lazuli, mined from deep within the earth. It was millions and millions of years old, revered by kings and queens and pharaohs. It had decorated masks and jewellery and been kept inside palaces and pyramids. It had been ground into a powder called ultramarine – the finest of all blue pigments, favoured by Titian and Vermeer and Perugino.
One day Johnny had said that his art would be recognised and then he would give her as much gold as she wanted. She had told him that she didn’t care about gold, that she only wanted him, and perhaps a shawl, the colour of the lady’s shawl in the painting. And now he had sent her that shawl.
Tears pooled in her eyes as she took the letter, drew out the single sheet of paper and read.
At first, she registered only fragments of sentences and odd words. She reached the end of the page and took a breath, looked up at the windows set in the roof. Clouds drifted across the sky above her and shafts of light picked out the dust. She heard the piano playing in the flat below, the faint scrabbling of mice. The scratch of a pigeon on the roof.
She studied the letter again and focused more clearly. He wrote about the beauty of Paris, Notre Dame and the Sacré Coeur. He talked of climbing the Eiffel Tower and walking in the Tuileries and visiting the Louvre. He had met so many talented artists, he said. Most of them were men, but there was a woman too who painted the most beautiful sunsets he had ever seen.
Connie read and reread this part over and over, feeling the needle of jealousy. Who was this woman? It was only at the end of the letter that he told Connie he missed her. He made no mention of coming home or of her coming to see him. A shadow passed overhead. A bird, wings outstretched, gliding through the air. It disappeared and left no trace.
Slowly, Connie walked downstairs. On the first floor, she paused outside Dorothy’s door. Should she share Johnny’s address with his mother? No. She would keep this to herself, for now; she couldn’t risk Dorothy interfering. Not yet. If all went according to plan, there would be plenty of time to let her know their whereabouts. She gave a smile at the thought. Their whereabouts. Her and Joh
nny and their beautiful baby.
Eva appeared, clutching the rag doll. Connie let the little girl smooth the shawl with her fingers and then gave her the silver paper and told her how to cut out stars and hang them from the ceiling.
Even the presence of Kenneth and Victor in the front room didn’t dampen Connie’s mood. In her bedroom, she hid the shawl beneath the floorboard.
She had power because she had knowledge and money and could make choices and decisions. No one would stop her now.
23
Marina
January 1992
Marina wakes the next morning thinking about Eva.
She decides to distract herself by spending the next few days decorating. She paints the rest of the living room blue and it is soothing, like waves lapping on a shore. She trawls around shops and markets and buys blue cushions with gold piping and a pair of green second-hand curtains. The place starts to feel like home – even the bathroom once she’s painted it coral and bought a new bath mat to cover the stains. She imagines she has created the sea. She is Marina, floating beneath the surface. She is suspended in time.
She finishes Agata’s manuscript and visits her in Tooting Bec to talk through the next step. Marina makes calls on her behalf and eventually finds a small independent publisher who agrees to buy the book. It’s not a huge sum and there are no promises of far-reaching readership, but it means Agata’s story will be heard. They celebrate with sweet pastries and cakes.
Marina is sorry the project is over and considers what to do next. Realising the state of her bank account isn’t great, despite her cheap rent, she looks more earnestly for work. Since she has no definite idea, she applies for a variety of jobs – a position in an art gallery, a museum, a publishing house. She buys a TES and leafs through the newspaper. A French teacher is required at a large comprehensive school in Tower Hamlets. Another is wanted in Hackney. She draws a circle around each advert. There’s no harm in enquiring about both. She spots another job at her old school in Bristol. She hesitates then circles that one too.
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