Marina is surprised to see an arched entrance set into the wall. She guesses it leads to the church. Idly she turns the handle and the door opens easily. She steps into silence and what looks like the oldest part of the graveyard – ancient tombs with cracked stones and faded inscriptions. She wanders along the overgrown paths briefly, and is about to return the way she has come when a figure appears. It’s Dorothy holding a bunch of flowers. She frowns, surprised, perhaps, to find the door left open, and then she walks slowly, skirting the graves, and disappears to one side of the church.
On impulse, Marina follows her. The paths and graves here are equally unkempt, the ground uneven. Crosses lean precariously and headstones crumble.
Dorothy stops midway along the side wall and stands head bowed. Her lips are moving, as if she is talking to herself, or praying. Marina watches only for a moment before she walks quietly away and round to the front of the church.
She waits in the cold stone porch. There is a noticeboard set behind cracked glass. Absent-mindedly, Marina reads. There is a list of services, an out-of-date advert for the Christmas fair. There’s a rota of women who clean the church and sort the flowers. Dorothy’s name is among them. There is a list of other roles too: the vicar, the curate, the treasurer. The last: Kenneth Quip. Marina smiles wryly. They have enlisted the help of an ex-thief to take care of the money.
It seems as if their names are forever linked: Kenneth and Dorothy. She was his spy, perhaps his one-time lover. And now this. They’ve known each other for years, yet it occurs now to Marina that when she was speaking to Kenneth in the garden and Dorothy appeared, the two of them hardly exchanged a glance.
Marina leaves the porch and returns to the side of the church. Dorothy has gone but the flowers lie against the wall. Marina looks around, curious. Does Dorothy have a relative buried here? She scours the graves, but they are all so old and weathered that the inscriptions are almost gone. Besides, why would she put the flowers all the way over there?
A crow calls. Marina glances up as it flies from the roof of the church. Still curious, she crosses to where the flowers lie, and kneels on the ground. Ivy and something that might be bindweed reaches from the wall, curtaining the earth. Gently, she sweeps the plants aside and there, right at the back, she finds a tiny wooden cross. She leans back, frowning. It must be a pet. Yes. A beloved pet that Dorothy has buried. How complex she is. A woman estranged from her son, and seemingly utterly without charm or warmth, yet she cherishes her cat or dog or whatever else it is hidden beneath this earth.
Impulsively, Marina leans forward and takes the cross from the ground. No name. No date. It is simply two small pieces of wood nailed together. Not much of a marking for a grave. She replaces it gently.
Sardine appears as Marina steps into the main part of the garden. He winds around her legs and she stoops to stroke his fur. Ahead of her the house looms darkly.
She has made up her mind. She will go straight to Dorothy and ask her what she knows.
But Kenneth Quip is at the foot of the front steps when Marina rounds the corner. He wears the same dark and shapeless suit that he wore before, and has a battered briefcase clamped beneath one arm. If anything, his body is more wasted than it was last time Marina saw him. He is unshaven and his eyes are bloodshot. He looks like a man who hasn’t slept.
At last, Marina thinks, he has come. Dorothy can wait. Now she will question Kenneth.
‘Are you here to fix the boiler?’ she says, innocently.
He stares back at her and bows his head.
It starts to rain. ‘Shall we go inside?’
He bows his head again.
She leads the way. It’s as cold inside as it is out. Behind her, Kenneth closes the front door and the hall descends into darkness.
33
Connie
5–7 August 1964
Another day passed. Connie lay fretfully in the darkened room, but she was resolved. She was going to leave for Paris as she had originally intended. It would be a struggle, she knew that – she was still bone-tired and sore, and so far she’d barely left the room, let alone the house. Travelling across London and then on to Paris with a newborn child was insanity – but Connie had no choice. She couldn’t risk whatever it was that Dorothy was planning.
Dorothy had said nothing more about adoption. Perhaps she had changed her mind. Sometimes, Connie caught her looking at Sarah with a fixedness, a fascination. Yet that afternoon, Connie had woken to hear voices outside the room. Barbara again. Panicking, she had struggled upright, but her daughter was still asleep on her makeshift bed on the floor.
Was she a prisoner? Were they plotting to keep her there and steal away her baby? Connie didn’t think so. Dorothy brought her food and drink. She helped her wash, sponging the blood from her legs. She helped her change her stained nightdress. She helped her to look after Sarah. From time to time, she went out, to collect or deliver laundry. The door wasn’t locked, or at least Connie didn’t believe it was. She could leave at any time, only she was too weak. She had lost what seemed like an awful lot of blood, but she didn’t know if that was normal or not.
She focused on recovering, eating everything Dorothy brought her. When Dorothy went out for provisions, Connie left Sarah sleeping and eased her legs onto the floor. When the room stopped spinning, she hobbled to the kitchen, drank water and felt better. She had two more nights. Then she would go to Paris.
The day passed and then another. Connie could keep track now. She was stronger, fitter. Better. The enormity of the task ahead still daunted her, but she was determined. The seventh of August came. The day she must leave.
In the morning, Dorothy appeared. ‘I won’t be long,’ she told Connie. She was dressed to go out, her handbag hooked on one arm. She had applied her make-up, bright as always with a thick slash of crimson on her lips.
Dread unfurled like smoke. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m meeting Barbara.’
‘I told you,’ said Connie. ‘I don’t want this to happen.’
‘I know and it’s hard, but you need to think more clearly. Imagine what your father will say when he finds out. Imagine how people will judge you.’
‘I don’t care.’
Dorothy adjusted her coat, seemed to consider. Then she leaned down, so close that Connie felt her breath on her cheek. ‘I was alone with Johnny,’ she said. ‘I know how it feels to have fingers pointing, tongues wagging.’
Connie stared at her. ‘But I thought Johnny’s father . . . I thought he . . .’
‘You thought wrong,’ she snapped. ‘Johnny’s father took off the moment I told him I was pregnant. He disappeared as quickly as this.’ She snapped her fingers.
‘So, who was the man who came here?’ Connie asked, remembering the man who had abused Mrs Kolinski when her mother had been alive.
Dorothy shook her head impatiently. ‘Not his father. My ex-husband. And he never thought of Johnny as his own.’ She stopped, as if she’d said too much.
‘Why did you marry him?’
‘Because I thought my son needed a father. It was a mistake. You have no idea what he was like or what I went through. So, listen to me. I know what it’s like to have a baby on my own and I am telling you it’s hard.’
‘But Johnny . . .’
‘There is no Johnny.’ His mother raised her voice. ‘He’s gone and he won’t come back if he thinks there’s a baby here to weigh him down. And if he doesn’t come back, what will I do? You have your whole life ahead of you. I have nothing. Except him.’
Connie turned her head away. She wanted to say that she would have a grandchild, but Dorothy was bitter. Angry and bitter. She wouldn’t listen, or care.
‘Barbara has found a couple,’ she continued. ‘They’re coming here this afternoon. I think when you meet them, you’ll agree that it’s for the best.’ She spoke firmly but Connie heard the catch in her voice and saw the colour flaming in her face. Was she trying to convince herself as much as Connie?
The door banged shut. Sarah whimpered. Connie fed her and knew it was now or never. She waited for Sarah to finish, for her breath to slow, her body to relax. She waited for the trickle of milk to slip down her tiny chin. Then she kissed her daughter gently, laid her down on the sheet, and with both hands for support, pushed herself out of bed.
Pain weaved through her. The ache in her belly, the soreness between her legs, the strain of her breasts. Her keys were in amongst her clothes at the foot of the bed. Connie picked them up, then limped from the room, Sarah in her arms. Slowly, she opened the front door. She listened carefully: a drip in the pipes; a creak in the joists. Tip-tap. Kenneth doing his rounds. She moistened her lips. She needed to drink or else she would faint. Shuffling across the corridor to her flat, she unlocked the door, feeling a wave of relief and something like triumph as she closed it quietly behind her.
In the kitchen, she drank water. In the living room, she set Sarah on the settee. In the bedroom, she busied herself looking for the baby clothes that her mother had saved. She lifted the loose floorboard and pulled out the shawl. She found her ticket to Paris and the extra money from the jewellery, which she had hidden inside the poetry book. The letter to Johnny was folded away in a makeshift envelope which she’d stuck onto the back cover. She didn’t need it now because she was going to see him herself. Taking half of the money, she left the rest inside the book, tucking it beneath the floorboard. When she came home, she would give the money to her father to use towards the rent he owed to Kenneth. Next, she slipped on her mother’s wedding ring. Travelling with a baby would be easier as a married woman. Fewer questions. Less unwelcome attention.
It was hard to wash and dress with the pain gripping her insides. Connie gritted her teeth, moving clumsily, fixing her make-up with shaking hands. In the living room, she sat for a moment, recovering, before wrapping Sarah in the blue shawl. She soothed her, fed her and, when she was ready to go, her eyes lit on the money that Victor had given her. She would take it to the basement, put it into his post box. She had Sarah now and wanted nothing to do with his dirty cash.
Opening the door, she heard the tip-tap of a stick. Kenneth. Hastily, she stepped back inside. The tapping paused on the landing. She held her breath. A minute more and he carried on, doing his rounds. Tip-tap up the second flight of stairs and all the way back down.
Voices in the hall. Kenneth had been joined by Victor. Her heart sank. How would she get past them? At last, she heard a slam. They had gone. She must get out of this house, or else she never would.
Mrs Kolinski was playing the piano. The familiarity of the music gave Connie courage. Wincing, she picked up her suitcase, slung her bag over her shoulder and, with Sarah clasped to her chest, stepped onto the landing. There was a noise above her. She looked up. Little Eva in her purple dress, on the stairs, clutching her doll. Connie waved and then she put her finger to her lips.
Setting the suitcase on the floor and turning to lock the door, she rummaged in her pocket for her key. No luck. Feeling hot, she put Sarah down inside the flat, to the side, hiding her from view. She searched her bag. She plucked out her purse, her passport, the ticket. Nothing. Any minute Dorothy would be back. She’d stop her from leaving. Maybe she’d come with Barbara and the couple who wanted to steal Sarah.
Sweat dripped down Connie’s side. She scrabbled through her things. Almost crying, she pulled out the bank notes. No key.
And then she heard a voice.
‘Connie. Where are you going?’
She swung round. Kenneth. At least it wasn’t Dorothy. She leaned against the doorpost.
He was staring at her, his eyes travelling from the suitcase to her face, to the money in her hand. Slowly she tucked it into her pocket. Please God he hadn’t realised.
‘What’s that you’re hiding?’
‘Nothing.’
His eyes hardened. ‘Is it money?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Your father owes me rent and you’re running around with that?’ His face darkened. ‘It’s not mine, is it?’
She stared back at him.
‘Have you stolen it?’
‘No, I . . .’ She stopped. What excuse did she have?
He raised his voice, spoke deliberately. ‘All this time I’ve been searching for intruders and the little thief has been right here, under my very nose.’
He leaned into her face. His breath stank. Rearing back, Connie pulled the door half closed.
‘No,’ she said again. ‘I was going to give it back. I was on my way now.’
He ignored her. ‘Haven’t I helped your father enough?’
‘But . . .’
‘You’ve been spying, haven’t you? Watching from your window. I’ve seen you looking out at night. You found my little cache and you’ve been filching. That’s right, isn’t it? I expect you thought you were clever. Have you any idea what happens to thieves in my world?’
He was glaring, waiting for her answer.
‘No,’ she whispered, but she thought of the man with the sticking out ears whose body had been dragged from the lake. Was that how it ended?
He gave her a smile that nowhere near reached his eyes. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I can tell you, they don’t do well. They don’t do well at all.’
‘But I didn’t steal it,’ she said desperately. If she didn’t go soon, she would miss her train. She would be slow anyway, carrying Sarah, and she was still bleeding: she could feel it draining through her even as she stood there.
Kenneth straightened up. ‘I was convinced it was Victor rummaging about in my flower beds, but when I accused him, he had no idea what I was talking about.’
Why did you believe him? Connie wanted to scream. But no words came out.
‘But if I wasn’t sure who it was then,’ Kenneth added, ‘I certainly am now.’
‘Did he say it was me?’ she asked, keeping her voice level.
‘No, because he obviously didn’t know.’
Connie’s shoulders slumped. How had he got Victor so wrong? She pressed her lips closed. If she could get rid of this money and get away from Kenneth, she could take Sarah and leave and still be on time. But she felt so weak. Pain pierced her stomach.
Kenneth carried on. ‘I find this very disappointing after everything I’ve done for your father.’ His eyes dropped to the suitcase on the floor. ‘I’m guessing that’s full of my money too.’
‘No. I promise . . .’ She blinked, trying to focus, but Kenneth’s face had blurred.
‘And now you want to disappear. Where are you going?’
‘Paris,’ she said, but her voice sounded far away. Blood had soaked the towel. She was sure it was spilling at the edges. She needed to change. Did she have time?
‘Please. I have to get a train.’
He shrugged. ‘You can get whatever train you like, my dear, but first you can give me my cash.’
She could hear Sarah softly whimpering and felt the painful rush of milk. She made to go inside.
Kenneth, oblivious, grabbed her arm, pushing her off balance. ‘My money,’ he said. She staggered against the door and it slammed against the wall.
‘Give it to me, now, and we’ll say no more about it.’
‘But I need . . .’ What? A doctor, painkillers, more towels to staunch the blood?
She stepped into the flat. He grabbed the suitcase and followed her, as she backed away further, hoping he wouldn’t see Sarah.
‘Please,’ she said, to an empty space.
He was on his knees, surprisingly agile, opening her suitcase, muttering and cursing when he found no money. Had he registered the baby clothes?
She looked at him, but her sense was dulling. His words were simply noise. His body just an outline.
Blood ran down her legs. Like heavy drops of rain on the rug. Sound amplified. The blood. Kenneth’s breathing. Her own heart pounding.
‘I need a doctor,’ she managed, her words slurring as she fell.
Somewhe
re, her baby made a sound. She moved her arm, reaching for the whimper, but the pain sharpened and her eyes filled with tears.
She would never be able to get up from where she lay and walk across the room to pick up her daughter, who must be so cold even though she was wrapped in the shawl.
It was blue. More than blue. Better than blue. Like the colour of the paintings in the gallery.
What was it called? That colour? That blue?
He had told her. He had told her everything as they had wandered through the different rooms, her heels clattering on the wooden floor. He had talked about artists: Sassoferrato – the name had fallen from his lips and whispered through the gallery. Botticelli. Whistler. Van Gogh. He knew so much. She had listened in awe.
All the paintings in the gallery had been beautiful, but the one of the lady in blue had been the best: The Virgin in Prayer. They had lingered there and he had told her how the blue paint had once been more precious than gold, and that one day his own art would be recognised and then he would give her as much gold as she desired. But she hadn’t cared about gold. She had only wanted him, and a shawl – the colour of the lady’s in the painting. That blue. What was its name?
Music drifted through the house and she closed her eyes. It was Chopin. She had heard it many times as she had lain in bed late at night or leaned against the doorway of the flat listening. But she couldn’t reach for the name of the nocturne any more than she could remember the blue.
The baby cried again and the sound was like the keening of the wind, or the call of a lost animal. If only she could move, but her body wouldn’t obey her brain’s commands, and the pain in her stomach grew along with her sorrow and, because she could do nothing else, she started to weep. Maybe, she thought, each tear would be one fewer that her baby would shed after she had gone. It wouldn’t be long now. She felt that instinctively. Darkness was falling, like fog descending.
34
Marina
The Hiding Place Page 22