Dorothy was busy: clamping and cutting and checking the baby. ‘It’s a girl,’ she said. Connie felt emptied out and desolate, as if her body had given something up, but then Dorothy wrapped the baby in a blanket and placed the bundle into Connie’s arms and, as she looked into her child’s face, love replaced the loss. She bowed her head as her tears swelled. A girl. A daughter. Her daughter.
Dimly, she heard Dorothy swear, saw her face contort as she reached between Connie’s legs and drew out a lump of gristle and flesh, which she dropped into a bowl. She was only half aware of Dorothy examining her, frowning and mopping and pressing and prodding. Because how could she concentrate on anything other than this beautiful baby in her arms? How could she concentrate on anything else ever again? Gently Connie touched the damp mass of hair that was black, like her mother’s.
Sarah.
She whispered the name in the baby’s ear.
She slept and when she woke, her arms were empty. It was dark in the room. There was an ache inside her and a sharp pain between her legs. She could feel a wetness there too, and put down her hand and touched blood. Struggling to sit, dizzy and frantic like a child who’d lost her mother – yet this was the other way around. Where was her baby? Where was Sarah?
Connie’s panic grew wild. She flung out an arm, knocking the lamp, fumbling for and finding the switch, and then spotted a blanketed bundle on the floor.
Relief became desperation. She must reach the bundle. She must pick up her baby. She must keep her close and warm. She tried lowering her legs over the side of the bed, but pain stopped her. Desperately, she gripped the bedside table, twisting her body, using it as leverage. The lamp fell. The baby let out a cry. The door opened and light sliced the room.
Dorothy rushed in, picking up the bundle and placing her in Connie’s arms. The baby burrowed close, her tiny face screwed up with concentration as she suckled.
How long did they stay like that, mother and baby? Connie could not tell. She fed the baby and dozed and fed the baby again. From time to time, Dorothy appeared like a nurse, or a gaoler, with a glass of water and a pill to take away the pain, with pads and towels to soak up the blood. Occasionally Dorothy took the baby away and while she was gone, Connie felt hollow and bereft. When the baby came back, she smelled of soap and Connie clutched her greedily to her breast. Sarah, she whispered time and again. She hoped the name would summon her mother and bring her close. Perhaps she was looking down on them both.
In moments of clarity, Connie wondered where Dorothy had found the clothes she dressed Sarah in. Had they been Johnny’s? An image of his face came to her so intensely, it was as if he had come into the room. For the rest of the time, she slipped into a dreamy darkness where time ceased and nothing mattered.
‘How is she?’ A woman’s voice. Dark and familiar.
Through closed eyelids, Connie sensed light.
‘She’s lost a lot of blood.’ This was Dorothy. ‘But it seems to be stopping and I’m keeping an eye on it. The baby’s fine. Early but no complications.’
Connie opened her eyes a slit. Dorothy on one side of the bed. Barbara on the other in a dark orange coat and matching hat.
‘Have you spoken about what we discussed?’
There was a pause. Connie focused on keeping entirely still. Her throat was dry, her lips cracked and she badly wanted to lick them.
‘Not yet,’ said Dorothy. ‘She’s drowsy. I’ve given her painkillers.’
‘Where did you get them?’ asked Barbara sharply. ‘Have you told anyone?’
‘No. They’re mine. For my back. I’ve told no one.’
‘Do you think she’ll agree? I can easily find people. No questions asked.’
Pause. ‘I don’t know. Come. Not here.’
They moved away. A moment later, the door clicked shut and the room dropped into darkness. Connie wanted to call out and ask them what they meant, but her mind felt dull and confused. She closed her eyes and drifted into sleep.
When she woke again, Sarah lay beside her and Dorothy was back in the room. She held a bowl of soup. Connie shook her head. She had no appetite. She was drowsy, her body was sore, her head thick with confusion.
‘I brought your nightgown,’ said Dorothy, indicating where it lay at the foot of the bed.
Connie didn’t ask how she had got into the flat. She remembered the keys she had seen on Dorothy’s sideboard. The thought of the woman rooting through her things made her shudder, but she said nothing.
In the haze of her muddled thoughts she wondered how much time had passed. It must have been a day and a night at least since she had gone into labour. Dorothy was at the window peering through the curtains at the street. Bright light slid through the gap. Connie wondered if she ought to see a doctor. But Dorothy was a midwife and, besides, going into hospital would raise questions. Her father would have to be contacted. It would delay her trip to Paris – although she realised she was in no state to travel anywhere. Not now, at any rate.
Dorothy sat down on the bed. Instinctively, Connie lifted Sarah to her breast. They stayed in silence for a few moments before Dorothy reached out and took her hand. Connie endured her touch, sitting rigidly with Sarah perched uncomfortably in her other arm.
‘We need to talk,’ said Dorothy quietly.
A feeling of dread crawled down Connie’s spine.
‘You want the best for her, don’t you?’
Still Connie didn’t reply.
‘And you want the best for Johnny.’
There was a pause.
‘Have you considered the other option we discussed?’
‘What do you mean?’
Dorothy smoothed the bedspread. ‘Adoption. Do you remember, when you said you didn’t want the medication?’
Connie had a vague recollection of Dorothy mentioning that, but they had never discussed it, she was sure. ‘No. I’m going to keep her.’
Dorothy moistened her lips and plucked at the bedspread again. ‘It would be for the baby’s sake.’
‘Her name’s Sarah.’
Dorothy blinked. ‘Yes. For Sarah’s sake and for Johnny’s as well as yours.’
‘But I don’t want to do that. I’m keeping my baby.’
‘It isn’t only about you, though, is it?’ said Dorothy. She leaned over and picked a stray hair from Connie’s nightgown. ‘Barbara has done this before. She knows lots of people who are desperate for a baby. Good people who can give Sarah a better life than you can. You can’t bring her up alone. Imagine what people will say about you.’
‘But Johnny might . . .’
‘He won’t! I know my son and he won’t want to be saddled with a wife and a baby. Not at his age. He’s probably not given you a second thought since he left. Think about it, Connie. All this time, and he hasn’t written to you once.’
Connie wanted to tell Dorothy that he had, actually – he had even sent her a gift, and she was planning to go to Paris to see him – but she kept quiet. Instinct told her that Dorothy would try to stop her. All she wanted was for her son to come home, and preferably to stay well away from Connie.
Dorothy was still talking. ‘It can be done privately, discreetly. A little money passing hands. Nobody needs to know.’
‘But I don’t want . . .’
‘Shush now. You’ll wake the baby.’
‘Sarah. Her name’s Sarah.’
‘You want the best for her, don’t you?’ said Dorothy again. ‘And for Johnny too.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘We want the same thing. We want Johnny to come home. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?’
‘But . . .’
‘Sleep now. You’ll feel better later.’
Swiftly, Dorothy lifted the baby from Connie’s arms and left the room.
29
Marina
January 1992
Harry’s Hat Shop isn’t difficult to find. A scan of the Yellow Pages and there it is.
Outside, the walls and window fr
ames are beautifully painted in a deep red, while the door is a glossy black. The windows are illuminated by spotlights and there is a tasteful display of hats on stands – women’s on the left side, men’s on the right.
Marina stands outside, looking through the polished glass. There are no customers inside, but she can see a young woman sitting at the counter, reading. She hesitates for a moment and then pushes open the door and steps inside.
There is a delicate smell of lavender. The shop gleams. The walls are red here too and there’s a red patterned rug on the dark wood floor. The woman at the counter is in her late teens perhaps, with sandy-coloured hair that’s cut short and tucked behind her ears. Her face is small, her skin has a smattering of freckles. She gives Marina a brief smile and an equally quick hello and, when Marina indicates she’s happy to browse, is then immediately absorbed in her book.
The walls are lined with shelves that are in turn laden with hats, and several tables are artfully dotted about the room, each with their own display. The lighting is soft and well positioned. There are paintings on the walls – old-fashioned portraits, a London skyline – and a rectangular gilt-edged mirror with an intricate pattern.
Marina scans the array of bowler hats, flat caps, pork pies, stylish fedoras, bell-shaped cloches, elegant fascinators. There is every type of hat conceivable, each carefully arranged to show it to the best advantage. She pauses at one of the smaller tables to examine a chocolate brown pillbox with a bow and a tiny veil. Marina has no knowledge of the art of millinery but she can see that the hat is exquisitely stitched, the material expensive, the netting fine. While she is bending to admire it, a middle-aged man appears from the back of the shop, carrying a top hat. He bears a remarkable resemblance to the girl – same colouring and freckles, same slight build. They must be father and daughter. He stops short when he sees Marina as if somehow it’s a surprise to see a customer, then he smiles and greets her before continuing to the main table where he places the hat on a stand.
Marina touches the hat she has been examining with one gloved hand. She would like to pick it up, but doesn’t dare. Anyway, she doubts it would fit properly over her thick hair.
The young woman calls out, ‘I’m off now.’
The man is standing, arms folded, contemplating the hat he has just set down. Looking up, he asks, ‘Where?’
‘To meet some friends,’ she says vaguely.
‘What time are you back?’
Marina listens while taking an interest in a beautiful crimson beret.
The door shuts and the man appears beside her. ‘I think that would suit you,’ he says.
She checks for signs that he is flirting with her, but his face is serious. He wants to sell her a hat.
‘I’m not sure,’ she says. ‘Do you think so?’
‘Try it,’ he says, gesturing to the mirror. He picks up the beret and passes it to her. She takes it and crosses the room. Placing the beret on her head, she gazes at her reflection and adjusts the fit. In the glass, she can see the man staring at her, yet she doesn’t find it intrusive.
Quickly, she removes the beret and turns. ‘I’m not sure,’ she says again.
‘It suits you,’ he replies.
She glances at the price tag. It’s too expensive.
‘We have a sale.’
‘Do you?’ She looks around for evidence, signs offering discount, but there is nothing.
He offers her thirty per cent off. When she raises her eyebrows, he says, ‘Come on, you’ll be doing me a favour. I haven’t made a sale today.’
She regards him suspiciously. It seems like special treatment, but the hat is lovely. She peels off one glove and touches the soft wool. ‘All right. Thank you.’
At the desk, he wraps the beret in tissue paper. His fingers are long and deft and he takes great care. While he works, he asks her casually if she is from the area. She hesitates before telling him she lives in Streatham.
He stops what he is doing. Is it her imagination or is his face paler than it was before? ‘I used to live in Streatham,’ he says.
She swallows. So, this is Harry. No doubt about it.
They complete their transaction. It is quiet in the shop with only the faint buzz of traffic from the street. Marina doesn’t move.
‘Is there something else?’ he asks.
She breathes out, long and slow. ‘Yes, actually.’
He raises his eyebrows. They are thick, she notices, and he has laughter lines and soft, brown eyes.
‘I’m writing an article about a local story. I mean a story local to Streatham.’
‘Are you a journalist?’ His voice is suspicious now.
‘No,’ she replies hastily, ‘I work in publishing. But I’m interested in local history and specifically about an event that happened in the 1960s.’
He frowns. His manner is changing. ‘What event exactly?’
‘There was a baby that was abandoned in 1964 in a house – 24 Harrington Gardens. Do you remember that?’
His eyes widen, but he speaks carefully. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I do recall that story.’
Despite the rising sense of guilt that she has somehow tricked this man, Marina continues. ‘I’m searching for the tenants who lived there at the time. I’ve spoken to several already, but . . .’ She pauses. ‘There is a particular person I’m interested in tracking down.’
‘Oh?’ He tightens his lips. ‘Who’s that?’
‘There was a young woman called Connie Littleton. She moved abroad before the baby was found. I was told she had a friend called Harry. And . . . I’m guessing that’s you.’
He stares at her, his eyes narrowing. ‘Yes,’ he says shortly. ‘Who told you where to find me?’
‘Victor. Victor Wallace.’
‘Oh.’ He studies her for a second and then frowns as if trying to place her. ‘Tell me again who you are.’
‘My name is Zoe . . .’
‘Zoe?’
‘Zoe Alexander.’ She pauses, wondering what to say next.
A woman appears from the back. She is about Harry’s age, rosy-faced and cheerful. She seems surprised to see the two of them standing there and glances from one to the other in turn. ‘This is my wife,’ he says, ‘Belinda.’
The two women smile at each other. Then, reaching inside her bag, Marina pulls out her notebook and a pen. She tears out a page, scribbles down her phone number and hands it to him. ‘Would you call me if you think you can help?’
He takes the paper with no response and she leaves quickly, clutching her beret in its elegant bag, walking rapidly away from the main road, in no particular direction. Her face burns. She has been too hasty mentioning Connie to Harry. She should have built up a relationship, gone into the shop a few times, established a rapport.
She is halfway along the street when she hears a shout.
‘Wait.’ Harry in a coat and trilby is hurrying towards her.
Her heart lifts and she stops. He catches up.
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Zoe Alexander.’
‘Zoe.’ He scrutinises her. ‘Let me buy you a coffee.’
He walks away, hands in his pockets, as if expecting her to follow – which without hesitation she does.
They go to a cafe and find a seat in one corner. The cafe is elegant with Art Deco lamps and dark wood tables. Harry takes off his trilby and lays it on the table.
‘Tell me about your article,’ he says. ‘Why are you writing it?’
She clears her throat and speaks quickly, seizing her opportunity. ‘I’m a teacher by profession, but I’m working in publishing and I’d like the chance to write articles, for magazines. When I moved into 24 Harrington Gardens . . .’
‘You live there?’
‘Yes. There was a room free and I . . .’ She falters.
‘Go on.’
‘Well, I found out about the abandoned baby and it occurred to me to use it as a springboard for an article about historical events in the area.�
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The practised lies fall easily from her lips, but Harry is unsmiling. Victor had humoured her. This man most likely will not.
He fires questions at her. ‘Do you expect to find the missing parents? Are you planning to speak to the person who was abandoned? Have you asked them if they mind your delving into their life?’
Flustered, she suddenly regrets coming to this cafe with a man she hardly knows. She considers leaving her coffee, apologising for wasting his time and making a bolt for it, but there is nothing to lose by fronting it out.
‘I’m sure the person in question won’t mind.’
‘And why do you have so much interest in Connie Littleton?’
‘Because she disappeared to Paris and never came back and . . .’
She loses her thread, takes a gulp of hot coffee, scalds her mouth and splutters. He hands her a paper napkin and she can tell that he doesn’t believe a word.
‘Why don’t you tell me who you really are?’ he says finally. ‘If you are a reporter, I’m not in the least bit interested in speaking to you.’
His tone is dismissive, coldly angry, his gaze piercing, and now she understands. His invitation has nothing to do with wanting to help her with research. He has created a trap, and his gaze, which didn’t bother her earlier, is now definitely intrusive. In fact, it’s downright annoying.
‘I’m not a reporter,’ she says, pushing her chair back and standing. ‘I’m a teacher, an ex-teacher, and an editor – and I’m interested in this story and . . .’ She trails off. ‘And I’m grateful for your advice about the hat . . . the beret . . . and the discount . . . but can you please stop looking at me like that!’
She fumbles in her bag for her purse. He leans forward and grabs her arm.
‘What the hell . . . ?’ She pulls away, but then stops. He is staring with such intensity, she has no idea what he wants.
‘I believe you,’ he says, ‘at least the part about you not being a reporter.’
Her heart slows.
‘And I didn’t mean to stare.’ He lets go of her and puts his hands to his face. ‘It’s just so strange. I mean . . . you came here talking about Connie Littleton and . . .’
The Hiding Place Page 20