But Connie had the stolen banknotes.
Why had she taken them and put herself in debt to Victor?
She bound her belly as usual, slipped on her dress and applied her make-up carefully. Once again, she had been kept awake for most of the night – not just by splintered dreams, but also the baby kicking and turning and, in the early hours, a dull ache that had come and gone. Rummaging amongst her mother’s clothes, Connie found a fringed shawl and draped it over her shoulders.
On the way out, she stopped at her father’s desk and rolled back the lid. In a few days’ time, she would be gone. She would pack later, but now she wrote the note she planned to leave for her father, just in case he came home early or she was delayed. She worded it carefully, making no mention of her pregnancy, but telling him how she had left to find Johnny. I love him, she wrote at the end, and I hope you understand. She signed off and left the lid of the desk open, the note visible on the blotter.
Eileen was collecting her post, and when Connie asked for a word, invited her into the flat. The front room reeked of stale smoke; clothes were draped over the furniture or dropped in suitcases that had themselves been left open on the floor. Despite the warmth of the day, the fire crackled. Connie could see the blackened edges of burning papers. More of Leonard’s things, she guessed.
Sweeping a pile of magazines from an armchair, Eileen indicated that Connie should sit, while she perched on the sofa. ‘You must have wondered what was going on the other day,’ she said. ‘I guess I looked like a crazy woman.’
She said the word crazy in an American drawl with a long, lazy vowel. Her voice was warm like her personality. Connie glanced at the open suitcases. Eileen was obviously leaving soon.
‘Broadway here I come,’ she said, following Connie’s gaze.
Connie sighed, sinking further into the chair, turning her face to the heat of the fire. She would miss her. The ache in her belly had increased. She arranged the ends of the shawl more effectively to cover herself and tried not to show her discomfort. Maybe she should tell Eileen about the baby and her plans to go to Paris. Eileen wouldn’t be shocked. She’d come all the way from America so she had to know something of the world.
She was talking about Leonard. ‘Never stay with a man who wants to control you,’ she said. ‘Freedom is everything and you need to fight for it.’
But what if you couldn’t be free? What if you were captured by circumstance because you had no money, or you had lost a loved one, or were pregnant when you were only seventeen?
Connie imagined the words on her lips, but somehow, when she opened her mouth, they just wouldn’t come. Instead, she told Eileen about Socks, asking her to look out for the kittens, at least until she left for America.
‘Yes, of course I will, darling,’ Eileen replied, ‘but where are you going?’
‘France.’
Eileen’s eyes widened.
‘Paris,’ Connie added. ‘I’m going to see my boyfriend.’
‘That’s very brave,’ said Eileen gently. ‘Does your father know?’
‘Yes,’ she lied.
‘And he doesn’t mind?’
Connie shook her head.
‘Well, that’s modern of him and independent of you. Well done.’
The baby kicked and Connie felt another urge to confide, but then somebody hammered on the door and Eileen leapt up. ‘If that’s Leonard,’ she said, ‘I’ll . . .’
It wasn’t, but it was a friend of his, and Connie suddenly felt awkward and unwelcome as Eileen invited him in. She introduced him as Leonard’s pal, but she clearly knew him well too, and even though there didn’t seem to be anything between them, Connie was uncomfortably aware of how young and gauche she must appear. As soon as she could, she left them to it and headed out into the garden.
The flowers on the magnolia tree were past their best. The petals were brown-tinged and drooping at the edges. Connie felt the pain again – sharper now, more prolonged. The sensation grew and she put her hand to her belly until it disappeared. Trying to ignore her misgivings, she stepped through to the end of the garden. Victor had done a good job of flattening the earth.
Nettles and brambles choked the space between the shed and the wall. Covering her mouth and nose against the stink of moist earth and decomposing plants, Connie peered into the gloom and spotted Socks lying on a patch of flattened undergrowth. At first, she thought the cat was dead and the squirming creatures around her body were fat maggots feeding on her flesh, but then she saw a pair of yellow eyes staring back at her. The writhing bodies were kittens. She counted five of them, ravenously pawing at their mother’s flesh, and a sixth, motionless amongst them.
She tiptoed away, leaving Socks to it, hoping Eileen would remember to look out for the kittens. At the side gate, she put her hand on the latch, stopping abruptly as the pain – almost like cramp, but more crippling – returned, stronger this time, lasting longer. Breathing deeply, she waited for it to go.
At the front of the house, she stood beneath the maple tree. She felt an odd sense of finality, a feeling that she might never see these things again. Frowning, she fixed her eyes on the familiarity of the street, touching the bark of the tree, running her fingers along the roughness of the railings.
The cramp came yet again. She must have eaten something that disagreed with her – it was too early for the baby to be due. But the pain grew fiercer and she gripped the railing. Food poisoning, she told herself, as it subsided. Staggering to the steps, she climbed them slowly. Gritting her teeth, she made it into the hall.
Music flooded from Eileen’s flat. Connie couldn’t tell whether she was alone or if Leonard’s friend was still there, although she could make out Ella Fitzgerald and Eileen’s voice singing along. Should she tell her that Socks had had her kittens? Softly she knocked, but nobody heard. From the top of the house came the sound of the piano. Connie gritted her teeth at more pain, seething and hot.
Ella Fitzgerald stopped. Sweat beaded on Connie’s brow. She raised her hand to knock a second time, but her legs were trembling and she felt sick, and when she touched her forehead, it was clammy. Slowly, she allowed herself to drop, sliding down the wall. She was struggling to focus, and somewhere – although she couldn’t work out whether it was real or not – she sensed a presence. A figure gliding down the stairs like a ghost. If only it was her mother come back from the dead, but that was impossible – it couldn’t be her.
Shifting, Connie searched for the strength to stand, to knock on Eileen’s door. She pushed down on her hands and struggled to rise, but her body was like lead, her limbs unresponsive. Defeated, she groaned and breathed deeply, battling to stay conscious – because the figure coming towards her, she suddenly realised, was not a figment of her imagination at all, but a woman. A woman with a bright pink lipstick mouth and a scent of eau de cologne.
Sickness rose in Connie’s throat as the woman took hold of her arm.
27
Eva
January 1992
Eva stands in front of her door with one hand on the latch. Any moment now and she will do it. She will step out onto the landing. A few intakes of breath and she will take the stairs, one at a time, holding onto the bannister as she goes. Two flights down to the hall and she will knock on the woman’s door. Zoe. She said her name was Zoe, and the name means life.
It has been a while since Eva has had a life, at least outside her flat. How does she survive? Through the kindness of strangers. Well, the kindness of almost strangers. When her mother died, Selena had brought flowers and food and run errands, buying stamps and posting letters; Giovanni had brought music. And then, of course, there was Ron, the kindest of them all, never pushing, only enquiring. Are you all right? Fancy a takeaway? Need any milk?
Opening the door, she pushes the light switch and the mechanism whirrs. The stairs are steep. She clamps her hand on the bannister. From here she can see the first-floor landing and the doors of the flats below. But she is teetering on the edge of
a memory. Shadows are flitting, people are whispering, voices are rising, loud and angry.
She concentrates, takes one step at a time. She goes down slowly and by the time she reaches the first-floor landing, the light fizzles and goes out. Fumbling in the darkness, she finds another switch and pushes it hard. BAM. There is light and now she looks upwards and it feels as though she is peering through a tunnel of time.
In her imagination, Little Eva stands at the top of the stairs. She wears the purple dress. She holds the rag doll loosely in her hand. But her face is stained with tears. Why is she sad?
Listen. Little Eva’s voice is whispering. Shall I tell?
The air thickens in a heavy, malevolent swirl.
In the present, Eva presses her hands to her head and takes deep breaths. She closes her eyes to force away the memory and when she opens them again, the whispering has ceased, the voices have quietened, the ghost is gone. It’s 1992. She is standing on the first-floor landing. She can hear the hum of a washing machine, the buzz of people talking, the sound of a baby crying.
What is real and what is not?
She continues slowly, all the way down the next flight of stairs to the hall. Her body is trembling, her skin slick with sweat. A few more steps. Tensing her muscles, she forces her legs forward and knocks on the door.
The woman answers quickly. Zoe. She is wearing her black coat and fingerless gloves and has a long, black scarf wound like a python around her neck.
She stares at Eva. ‘Are you all right?’
Eva smiles back weakly.
‘Please. Come in.’
‘But you’re going out.’
‘It’s not important. Come in. You look terrible.’ She takes her arm and Eva allows herself to be led.
Eva has never been inside the flat before, but she guesses Zoe is responsible for the vibrant colours and textures.
‘Would you like to sit down?’
‘Thank you.’ Eva walks unsteadily across the floor and takes a seat.
Zoe perches on a chair and unwinds her scarf. Her dark eyes are large with concern. She offers a drink: tea, coffee, water.
Eva declines. She has a headache and pushes her fingers against the hammering pain.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
Eva blinks and concentrates on Zoe’s hair – the way it falls forward, curtaining her face. She closes her eyes, but when she opens them again, the floor is still tilting. Her mind is still sliding.
Zoe leaps from her seat. ‘What’s wrong?’ she says.
‘It’s nothing.’ Eva tries to focus. ‘I just feel . . .’ She slumps in her chair.
‘What do you feel?’ The voice is gentle.
‘It’s nothing really,’ she murmurs. ‘It’s happened before.’
Zoe kneels at Eva’s feet and takes her hand. ‘Tell me.’
‘I can’t explain.’
‘Try; it might help, you know, to confide in a stranger.’
Eva nods slowly and when she speaks again the tension starts to drain. She talks about when she was a child and lost whole chunks of time; how she refused to leave the house. She recounts her mother making appointments for her to see doctors and psychologists.
‘They said I was having blackouts, brought on by the trauma of witnessing my father’s death and my mother’s miscarriage. I can’t remember either of those events, but I suppose that’s the point.’
‘And this is one of those episodes?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happens exactly?’
‘The world goes black. Everything around me disappears. Then a flash of memory comes. It’s like a white light splitting the darkness. I see myself as a child standing somewhere high up and I have a sensation of falling, like vertigo. I’m watching something that makes me feel awful.’
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know. Faces. Figures. But they’re blurry.’
‘What else?’
‘There are sounds – a tapping, a whispering, rising angry voices. A flash of light, a sudden noise like a door slamming and then crying. It’s a deep memory. I want to reach inside my mind and claw it out, but each time I take hold, it slips away.’ Eva takes a breath.
‘Does this happen all the time?’
‘It comes in phases.’
‘Do you know what triggers these episodes?’
Eva shrugs. ‘A scent, a sound, a person.’ She frowns. ‘You.’
‘Me? How?’
‘I saw you. That night when you came to the house. I watched you from my window. I thought I was looking at a ghost. I couldn’t believe it when you moved in.’
‘So, what is it about me?’
Eva pauses. ‘Your hair.’
Zoe touches it. ‘What about it?’
‘The colour. The thickness. I’m not sure. I only know that from the moment you walked in that door, I didn’t want to walk out.’
Zoe stares at her. ‘Do I remind you of someone?’
Eva shakes her head in frustration. ‘There’s somebody that I see in my memories. She’s pretty and kind and . . .’ She stops.
‘Yes?’
‘She’s in trouble. I’m frightened for her.’
Zoe reaches out her hand and takes Eva’s. Her face is drained of colour, her eyes huge and dark. She looks frightened and yet her gaze is warm and her expression is kind.
There is a name inside Eva’s head that she just can’t reach.
She makes herself a promise. She will work out what that name is. She will force herself to remember. She will find out what it is exactly that unnerves her about this woman who is kneeling before her now.
28
Connie
3–4 August 1964
When Connie opened her eyes, she was lying on a bed in a darkened room. For one moment, she thought she had died. But then the pain came. A wild animal seizing and ravaging her, tearing her apart. She arched her body, waiting for the cramp to build and swell and climax and then leave.
She relaxed, breathing heavily. How had she got here? Her mind trailed backwards. The arrival of Dorothy. Her grip on Connie’s arm. The laborious climb up the stairs. She had made it into Dorothy’s flat before the liquid flooded from between her legs. Stumbling into this room, she must have fainted.
It smelled sour, of sweat and bile. The curtains were drawn. Connie felt panic rising from the pit of her stomach and spreading through her chest. There was a noise, a whimper, and Connie realised the sound came from her. In the dim light of a bedside lamp she could see flowered wallpaper, a heavy wardrobe, a chest of drawers.
The door opened and a figure appeared. Connie opened her mouth to call out, but the pain came again, rising and sharpening, taking her breath. She writhed and groaned, grabbing hold of the bedstead, trying to haul herself up, but she was too weak, and before she could stop herself, she leaned over the bed and vomited straight into the bucket that Dorothy held.
The pain subsided and she lay back, wiping her mouth with her hand, wishing the room would stop spinning. A few minutes lapsed and it began again. She wanted to scream, but in the back of her mind she knew she must be quiet: this was her secret; she wasn’t ready for it to be discovered. Yet the baby was coming, even though it was too early. How could a baby survive coming into the world so soon? It was her fault. All the times she had considered getting rid of it, and the times she had tried, shifting the furniture, running as hard as she could, taking that hot bath.
The pain faded and she found that she was clutching Dorothy’s hand. Letting go, she turned away.
‘Did you do something?’ said Dorothy. ‘Did you take something to bring this on?’
‘No,’ moaned Connie. ‘I want my baby.’
‘Hush,’ said Dorothy, and as the pain came again, she pushed something hard and wooden inside her mouth. ‘Clamp down,’ she said and Connie did, grinding her teeth, tasting the darkness and earthiness of what? The handle of a brush, a wooden spoon? She wanted to choke.
On and on came the pendul
um of pain. There were longer periods of hell. Shorter and shorter reprieves. Dorothy’s face loomed as Connie slipped in and out of consciousness. When she was awake, and a contraction began, she flailed and thrashed, grunted and moaned. Her hair stuck to her neck and forehead with sweat. But she didn’t scream. She bit obediently onto the wooden handle.
‘I’m dying,’ she said between gasps of agony.
‘You’re not,’ said Dorothy. Her voice was matter-of-fact, but Connie could see something else. Fear, perhaps.
‘Do I need a doctor?’ she said in a moment of calm.
Lips pursed, Dorothy shook her head. ‘I can do this.’
‘But it’s too early,’ Connie wailed. ‘I don’t want my baby to die.’
Another contraction was coming. ‘Clamp down,’ Dorothy instructed.
And she did, biting the wood, pushing her fists into the mattress, trying to resist the nausea that swept through her.
‘Don’t fight it,’ said Dorothy.
Connie tried to trust her.
A soft rain pattered against the glass. The pain raged on. In her lucid moments, Connie imagined being with Johnny, walking hand in hand through the streets of Paris. If only she had gone sooner. If only she had sent him her letter. What would happen to her now? What if the baby died?
Suddenly she felt a searing as if her body was splitting apart.
‘It’s coming,’ said Dorothy. ‘Keep going. Push now.’
She tried: she pushed and pushed, and when the next contraction came, she pushed again.
‘It’s coming,’ Dorothy repeated. ‘Do you want to see?’
Connie was exhausted, spent, but somehow – somehow – she found the strength to press her hands against the mattress, force herself upwards, and there, between her legs, she saw a crown, a head. In another instant, a shoulder and a chest, a whole body, arms, legs. It was a tiny naked being, smeared in skin and blood and mucus, and it was the most incredible sight Connie had ever seen. She reached out, but the pain kept on coming.
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