She returns the design book. While Selena is in the kitchen making tea, and the baby sleeps in the cradle, Marina slots the book back in its place. Absent-mindedly, she takes out the dusty book of poetry she saw before. Carefully, she turns the brittle pages and thinks again of the lines she remembers from school.
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.
A fine brown dust has settled on her hands. It tickles her nose and she sneezes. Instantly, the baby stirs and gives a cry. Selena appears with the tea.
‘Sorry,’ says Marina, closing the book. ‘My sneeze must have woken her.’
Selena sets down the tray and picks up the baby lovingly. ‘No worries. It’s feeding time anyway.’ Settling in the armchair, she glances at the book in Marina’s hands. ‘I don’t know why I kept it.’
‘Where did it come from?’ asks Marina curiously.
Selena sits in the armchair. ‘Pete found it underneath a loose floorboard in the small bedroom.’ She nuzzles the top of the baby’s head, and adds, ‘He was sanding them.’ She pushes up her top and the baby feeds. ‘There was money too, inside the book, a bundle of pound notes.’
‘Interesting. Anything else?’
‘A collection of shells in a box, a fossil, an exercise book with scribbled stories inside.’
‘Sounds like a child’s treasure trove.’
‘Yes, although the book’s a bit adult, don’t you think? Do you want it?’
‘I’d love to borrow it.’
‘Keep it. Poetry’s not my thing.’ Selena soothes the baby and changes the subject, drawing Marina’s attention to an abstract painting on the wall. ‘Local artist,’ Selena says. ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’
Marina agrees, but is only half listening. When she was small, she used to put her treasures in a tin for safekeeping, which she hid in the wardrobe. She kept special stones, pictures of animals she cut out from magazines, gonks with different coloured crazy hair.
‘How long did you say you’ve lived here?’ asks Marina when the subject of the painting is exhausted.
‘About ten years,’ says Selena. ‘Can you believe that? I came first actually and when I met Bill, he moved in.’
‘And you said the previous tenant died.’
‘That’s right.’ She adjusts herself as the baby finishes its feed. ‘Although that was a long time before. The flat was empty for years.’
‘I wonder why.’
Selena shrugs. ‘I can’t really remember.’
Marina is silent for a moment and then she says, ‘I was talking to the owner of Crystal’s Books.’
Selena strokes the baby’s head. ‘Crystal’s Books? The shop off the High Road?’
‘Yes. Apparently, Thomas Littleton . . .’
‘Who?’
‘The previous tenant here.’
‘Oh right.’
‘Well, he owned it.’
‘Maybe. I don’t know.’
‘She said that the reason there was a delay with the sale was because there was a missing relative. A relative who was supposed to inherit.’
‘Hmm. It rings a bell.’ Selena is distracted, buttoning the baby’s cardigan.
‘Do you know anything about that?’
Selena finishes securing the buttons, smooths the tiny cardigan and frowns. ‘No, I don’t think so. Although now you’re talking about it, I do recall the estate agent making an excuse for the flat being in a state because the landlord hadn’t been able to rent it out. He said something about the previous tenant’s possessions, though I’m not sure why they couldn’t have gone into storage. Maybe there was more to it.’
‘Right.’ Marina massages her temples, thinking. ‘I was just wondering about the stash you found. It sounds like it belonged to a little girl, doesn’t it?’
‘I suppose so. Yes.’
Marina knows she is asking too many questions, seeming too interested, and has to make a conscious effort to back off. The baby is asleep again. Selena crosses the room and lowers her gently into the cradle. She stands looking down, a faraway smile on her face, and then chats about feeding habits and sleepless nights. ‘I dream of having six hours of straight sleep. Five would be enough, even four,’ she says.
‘Absolutely,’ Marina replies absently. Her mind is still in another part of the flat, imagining a little girl hiding treasures beneath a floorboard, keeping them safe just as Marina herself used to do. Could it be that Thomas had a daughter who wasn’t mentioned in the newspapers? Perhaps that was the missing relative Crystal spoke about?
Selena is still talking. Marina refocuses. She is being crazy, thinking like this. She doesn’t know for sure whether this relative was male or female. How can she find out more? Who can she ask? Victor comes to mind. Perhaps it’s time to speak to him again.
24
Connie
1 August 1964
‘Are you sure you won’t come?’
Her father was leaving for York. His suitcase was packed and ready by the door. Victor had offered to pick him up and drive him to King’s Cross.
‘Yes,’ said Connie, brushing a speck from his waistcoat and handing him his jacket. ‘You’ll be better off alone.’
‘Are you certain?’ he asked again.
‘I’ll be fine.’
Besides, soon she would be in Paris. She had bought her ticket and would be leaving London on 7 August, returning a week or so before her father was due home. It meant she had time to execute the list of chores her father had left her for the shop.
Five days with Johnny. Her heart beat madly each time she thought about what would happen when she saw him. How would he react? Would he pull her into his arms, delighted to see her again? She tried to imagine their reunion, but she couldn’t get past boarding the train to Dover, taking the ferry across the Channel. After that it was a blur.
‘You can ask Victor for anything you need,’ said her father, slipping on his jacket. ‘Kenneth too. Though maybe you should try Victor first.’
‘Why?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Kenneth’s behaving oddly. I mean more oddly than usual.’
‘How?’
‘He thinks there’s been an intruder in the house.’
‘He always thinks that, doesn’t he?’
‘I know but he said things have been moving around.’
Connie laughed. ‘Maybe we’ve got a poltergeist. Mum always said the house was full of ghosts.’
‘Yes, she did, didn’t she?’
They looked at each other wistfully, as they always did when one of them mentioned Sarah. This time Connie couldn’t stop the tears gathering.
Her father took her hand. ‘I’m so sorry, Connie,’ he said.
‘Don’t be. It’s not your fault.’
‘I’ve let you down.’
‘No, you haven’t, Dad.’
She couldn’t bear her father’s sadness or his guilt. He looked so tired, standing there in his old coat, his face lined, his eyes tearing up behind his glasses.
‘You’ve been such a good girl since . . .’ He stopped and shook his head, searching for the right words. ‘Since she left us.’
Connie hung her head. If he knew the truth, he wouldn’t think that. He would be disappointed and worried, not proud at all.
He carried on talking. ‘I wouldn’t have survived without you.’
‘Don’t be silly, Dad. Of course you would have done.’
‘No,’ he insisted. ‘You’ve kept me going when it should have been the other way around. I should have been taking care of you. I’m sorry, I really am. But things will be different from now on. I promise you. When I get back from this trip, I’ll be my old self again.’
‘You don’t need to change,’ said Connie.
‘Yes, I do.’
He patted her hand and did up the buttons on his coat, his fingers fumbling. She reached out and did them for him, speaking too brightly. ‘Tell me about Kenne
th,’ she said, ‘and these things which have been moving around.’
He laughed. ‘There was the carpet that disappeared from the front.’
‘It was stolen!’
‘Yes, but apparently, there was also a tea towel. It turned up inside when it should have been out.’ His lips twitched. ‘You wouldn’t believe how much he ranted about that.’
Connie grinned, pleased to see her father smiling. It must have been the tea towel she’d dropped outside Dorothy’s door ages ago. ‘What else?’
‘Someone stole a rose.’ He looked at her suspiciously. ‘I don’t suppose you know anything about that?’
She widened her eyes. ‘Me? No. I’m innocent.’
‘Innocent of what?’ Victor appeared in the doorway.
Connie ignored him. Brushing away another speck from her father’s coat, she leaned in for a hug, breathed in the familiar scent of his cologne.
‘Things will change – when I’m back,’ he said in her ear. She didn’t reply, not trusting her voice. ‘And if you decide to come after all, I’ve left some money in the tea caddy. You can use it for a train ticket.’
She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Enjoy yourself, Dad, don’t worry about me.’
He smiled sadly and then he was gone.
The next morning, Connie stumbled out of bed. The baby had kept her awake for much of the night, moving and kicking. She got ready slowly and left the house, walking heavily, conscious of a dragging sensation, a pain around her pelvis.
Outside, she spotted a woman in an emerald coat heading rapidly towards the High Road. Connie shaded her eyes. The coat was familiar. And then it clicked. There’d been a woman wearing one just like it, heading towards that dreadful house. And then again outside her own house. Connie had seen her through the basement window. Maybe it was a coincidence. From this distance, Connie couldn’t tell if she was pregnant or not.
Mind you, the way Connie was dressed, in her shift dress and a coat, despite the heat, and with her belly bandaged, she didn’t think people would guess that she was pregnant. Either way, the woman was certainly moving at a faster pace than Connie, who dawdled along, reluctant to get to the shop, where she knew she would just spend another day brooding.
Beside her, a bus pulled up. Impulsively, Connie clambered on. She could afford a morning off. She asked for a single to Tooting Bec, and the conductor took her fare. When they got there, she followed the crowd into the Underground, and felt glad to be hidden amongst so many people, despite the jostle and the lack of seats.
At Charing Cross, she emerged from the Underground into a bright morning light that slanted over Trafalgar Square. She crossed to the National Gallery and sat on the steps taking in the scene: the early-bird tourists, the statues and Nelson’s Column; the hum of people, the rush of fountains, the flutter of pigeons. She felt soothed and filled with a sudden hopefulness. It was good to be here, away from the darkness of 24 Harrington Gardens. She sometimes thought the house was malign, determined to cast a shadow over anyone who lived there.
They were wild thoughts, though, and Connie shook them off as she climbed the wide steps into the grand entrance with its vaulted ceiling and bustle of visitors and echoing voices. Closing her eyes, she imagined her hand on Johnny’s arm, her excitement quickening as they walked across the wooden floors of the galleries.
She looked for The Virgin in Prayer, but had forgotten where it hung. One gallery led onto the next and she passed row after row of religious paintings, all depicting suffering in a way that was repellent and fascinating in equal measure. At last, though, she walked into a room and spotted the painting. She stared at it for ages: the rich red and deep blue, the Virgin’s face in shadow, her straight nose and thin lips, her pink cheeks and blunt nails. Connie had hated having to sit for Johnny. What had it been like for this model? She must have stood for hours at a time.
Maybe that was the problem, she thought now in a kind of revelation. She didn’t want to stay still. She wanted to move through life, causing a ripple, making a difference. Yet so often people left no trace unless they created a masterpiece, like a sculpture or a painting. Or could it be something intangible? A memory held in a heart? Or a child. A child that then had a child themselves. Generation following generation. She thought of her mother, and the child in her belly.
Suddenly, Connie wanted to be home. Gathering herself, she left the gallery and retraced her earlier footsteps. At Tooting Bec, she missed a bus, so walked slowly home. Her feet were sore, her shoes too narrow for her swollen feet. They rubbed and chafed and she would have slipped them off if the pavement had been cleaner. What would it be like in Paris? She imagined the city glittering like a mirror. But she had based her ideas on photos and paintings and knew it must have its fair share of dusty corners like any other place.
Her head ached and the pain in her pelvis had come back. She would take an aspirin and lie in a darkened room once she got to the flat.
She paused for breath and a woman hurrying out of a shop nearly collided with her. As they both apologised a newspaper on the stand caught her eye. Bending, she read the headline: Body Found in Lake Identified. Connie looked more closely. There was a photo of a man. Middle-aged with light-coloured hair, unremarkable save for his ears, which stuck out like two handles of a teapot. She frowned. It was the man she’d seen with Kenneth in the garden. The caption even named him: Frank Dennis. She bought a copy of the paper, then tucked it under her arm and headed for home.
Connie’s first thought was that the gathering crowd near number 24 had something to do with Frank Dennis, but as she got closer, she saw debris covering the ground. An empty suitcase, clothes, books, a smashed reading lamp, a statue of Buddha. Eileen appeared at the window waving what looked like a script, which she proceeded to scatter, page by page.
The front door opened and Leonard appeared half-dressed in jeans and a vest. Zipping his flies, he leapt down the steps. The crowd laughed as he shook his fist.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ he yelled.
‘I’m throwing you out!’
‘You can’t throw me out. It’s my flat.’
‘No, it bloody isn’t. I pay the rent!’
‘Mad bitch.’
‘Stupid bastard. I should have got rid of you months ago.’
She carried on throwing his belongings into the street.
‘I’ll kill you!’
‘Touch me again and you’re dead!’ she said.
The crowd cheered. Leonard threw his hands up in defeat, snatched the suitcase and filled it with whatever he could grab before stalking off, trying to be dignified with no shoes and no shirt.
‘And don’t come back,’ Eileen yelled after him.
She caught sight of Connie and waved. Connie waved back and laughed as Eileen gave a bow along with a flourish to the onlookers.
Indoors, Connie settled down to read the article. The body had been dragged from the lake on Tooting Common. Frank Dennis, a low-grade gangster, had done time for robbery including assault. However, the assault charge had been revoked – just as Connie’s father had said – and Frank had been released. Three months later, he had turned up dead. He might have been drunk, the paper speculated, and fallen into the lake, or he might have killed himself. Or had he been murdered? It turned out he had significant debts.
Connie folded the paper, brows drawn. Did Kenneth know that this man was dead? Her father had talked about a rift. How serious had that been? She shivered and blew on her hands. She wished her father was here now, to talk the story through.
To distract herself, she went into the kitchen, opened the fridge and surveyed its contents. She should go shopping. There was hardly anything here. In the end, she had bread and butter and stood at the window eating.
It was almost dark, and the bushes and trees appeared ghostly in the twilight. As Connie gazed out, Kenneth came around the side of the house and walked across the lawn. He stopped halfway and turned. Instinctively, Connie stepped to the side and then m
oved further back.
That night, unease curled around her as she drifted in and out of sleep. As well as the usual noises, she imagined she could hear others: the beating wings of an owl; the flitter of a bat. Flowers in the garden closing their petals, the leaves curling, the trees stretching their branches.
A high-pitched sound made her jump. She swivelled her legs onto the floor and got out of bed. In the kitchen, she poured a glass of water. The screech came again. Leaning forward, she pressed her face to the glass. A creature scrambled over the fence and dropped onto the ground. It ambled across the lawn and stopped in a pool of moonlight. Sticking one leg up, it began to lick its fur. Socks. Her heart lifted. She’d come home. Connie rapped on the glass, but the cat took no notice, carrying on with its routine. Without thinking, Connie pulled her coat over her nightdress and slipped on her shoes. She grabbed her keys and let herself out of the flat.
Leaving the light off, she fumbled her way downstairs. In the hall, she hesitated. A glow from the street lamp showed through the window. The baby kicked and she grasped the bannister. Jazz music played quietly in Eileen’s flat. The sound of a chain rattling into place came from Kenneth’s.
Quietly, she opened the front door. The return of Socks was a sign. Connie would entice her inside, and in the morning, she would ask Eileen to take care of her until she returned from Paris.
She hurried round the side of the house. Surprisingly, Kenneth had left the gate unlocked. She pushed through and regretted not bringing a torch, but the moon was bright and she spotted Socks still sitting on the lawn patiently licking her fur.
Connie called out softly and the cat’s eyes glittered yellow. The shriek came again, sounding closer. Not Socks, but a fox perhaps, or could it be an owl? The cat reacted, hackles raised. Connie crept closer and was rewarded. Socks padded to meet her, purring loudly. Her face had thinned, but her belly hung low and she had a wild air and a fetid smell. Connie bent, stroking the cat, and, as she did so, she saw a movement, a kind of rolling inside her. She stepped back, surprised. Socks was pregnant too.
The Hiding Place Page 17