The Hiding Place

by Jenny Quintana

  ‘Then,’ said Dorothy, getting into the rhythm, ‘there were the girls who were forced into marriage with young men who were marched down the aisle. That wasn’t good for either of them.’

  ‘But I’m seventeen,’ Connie protested. ‘I’m not a child.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dorothy, breezing on, ‘there were the lucky ones who got proper abortions by proper doctors, but that’s expensive and not easy to do.’ She paused, and moistened her lips. ‘And if they couldn’t afford that route, or left it too late, they could still get it done, quietly –’ she dropped her voice – ‘but they had to be very careful who they chose.’

  ‘So what should I do?’

  ‘That, my dear, is for you to decide.’

  ‘But Johnny . . .’

  Dorothy sighed and crossed her arms. ‘Johnny has a career ahead of him. I don’t mean painting, of course – that’s a silly phase – but once he’s got that out of his system, he’ll come to his senses. And then . . .’ She paused. ‘He’ll come home.’

  Was this what Dorothy was hoping for? For her errant son to return and settle down?

  ‘I need to tell him,’ Connie insisted stubbornly.

  Dorothy smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. ‘How? When neither you nor I have an address for him? How long do you think you have before other people spot your situation?’

  Connie was silent.

  ‘Those are the options,’ said Dorothy, spreading her hands. ‘It’s up to you to decide.’

  Connie steadied her breath and glanced at the photos of Johnny. Baby, toddler, child, young man. It was true. He had his whole life ahead of him. And even if he did write, time was running out.

  Later, Connie made lunch, carving thick slices of ham and cracking eggs into a pan. The ham was sickly pale and the yolks were streaked with red. Blood, she thought, scraping it away with a wooden spoon. The sight of it made her shudder and the smell of the cooking made her stomach heave. She wished she had never gone to see Dorothy.

  8

  Marina

  January 1992

  First night. Footsteps cross the ceiling, a door bangs. It’s past midnight, but the house is alive.

  Marina sits in bed dressed like a Dickens character complete with fingerless gloves, bedsocks and hat. She shivers, hunkers down and tries to sleep. Despite having had the window open since she arrived, the room has a musty, choking smell. The door is propped ajar with the telephone directory, and sounds carry. The front door slams, and the whole house judders. Somewhere, another door opens and closes. A baby is crying.

  She switches on the lamp. It highlights the miserable brown wallpaper and she distracts herself considering which colour she’ll paint the room: bright yellow perhaps, or rich indigo or burnt orange. She thinks about reading but doubts she’ll be able to concentrate and swings her legs out of bed.

  In the kitchen, she boils the kettle and makes tea. Cradling the warm mug, she takes it into the living room. Ruth’s folder is on the table. Marina has re-read the clippings and notes many times, but she settles in the armchair and leafs through again.

  She scans the letter from the nurse who looked after her, Sofía Marques. The tone is warm as she talks of letting her house when her husband died and going to Ireland to be close to her son. She talks about her son’s new job in London too and the whole family returning and the pleasure she gains from her grandchildren. Children are everything, she writes. They help me heal.

  Outside a fox screams. Marina puts aside the letter and looks through the window, but there’s no sign of anything. She crosses to her front door and opens it a crack. Despite the hour, beneath the baby’s crying, she hears piano music weaving through the house. On impulse, she steps into the hall. There’s an eerie stillness among the shadows. Opening the main front door, she stands at the top of the steps breathing the frosty air. The houses opposite are still. Distant sounds of traffic float from the main road, while inside the house, the baby quietens and the music stops. The fox appears, a vixen perhaps, walking nonchalantly along the street, searching for food.

  In the morning, Marina wakes to the sound of church bells. She jumps out of bed and braves the icy bathroom before making strong coffee which she laces with sugar. Peering into her sparsely stocked cupboards, she decides to go out for breakfast. Hastily, she pulls on black leggings and a turtleneck jumper, her gloves and coat, and soon she’s springing down the steps and into the street.

  The sky hangs low and claustrophobic and Marina loosens her collar despite the chill. She has an odd, prickling feeling as if she’s being watched, but the houses are as silent as they were last night, their windows shuttered – and when she looks back at number 24, there is no shift in curtains, no one looking out. At least she doesn’t think there is. On the top floor, there might be a movement, but the window is open and the wind stirs the curtains. A fat pigeon sits contentedly on the roof. While Marina is watching, it heaves itself into action and flies elegantly away.

  Marina galvanises herself too. The public path alongside the house leads – tantalisingly – to St Michael’s Road. She puts off her quest for food and gives in to the temptation to seek out Sofía’s house. The path is muddy, a well-trodden shortcut, although stone walls enclosing the gardens on either side block out much of the light. Thick shards of glass have been cemented to the top of the wall of number 24.

  At the end of the path, Marina halts. Ahead of her, to the left, is the grey church; she can see people spilling out through the entrance and spots the small figure of Mrs Hyde, alone in the crowd. The rest of the road comprises lines of neat-looking Victorian terraces. Marina checks the direction of the numbering and crosses, heading away from the church.

  Sofía’s house sits in the middle of the street.

  Hitching her bag more securely on her shoulder, Marina opens the gate and strides down the path. A firm knock. Nothing. She waits and then knocks again. On impulse, she holds back her hair, leans down and looks through the letter box. She spies a thick, cream carpet in the hall, a tidy line of shoes, adults’ and children’s. An abandoned truck on the stairs. There is a smell of food, roasting meat. No sign of any movement. Perhaps they’ve gone out and left their meal to cook: a sign they’ll be home soon. She lets the flap of the letter box fall.

  Turning back towards the church, she heads down St Michael’s Road, passing the stragglers from the congregation. On Streatham High Road, she waits as the traffic hurtles past. In 1964, the streets would have been quieter, with milk floats and policemen on bikes. Now an ambulance shrieks past and cars and buses pull in to get out of its way. Marina takes her chance and crosses quickly, following the edge of the common before the aroma of fresh baking lures her to a side road.

  There is a row of shops including a green-painted bookshop called Crystal’s Books, with flowers in the window and spotlighted displays. Next door is an electrical shop with its windows crammed with vacuum cleaners, kettles and heaters. Further along is an old-fashioned looking cafe called Ruby’s, a grocer’s and a newsagent’s.

  In the cafe, Marina orders a salmon and cucumber sandwich to take away and a cake soaked in honey and topped with pistachios. Outside, she is tempted to browse the bookshop, but is distracted by a tall man hurrying towards her. Ron. The way he is struggling to put on his leather jacket as he walks, shoving an arm in one sleeve and groping for the other, makes her smile. He waves and she suppresses a laugh watching him turn circles as if he’s chasing his tail.

  ‘Need a hand?’ she calls.

  ‘You’re all right,’ he replies, ‘I know when I’m beat.’ He folds the jacket neatly and hooks it over his arm. ‘It’s too small. Or I’m too big.’

  He asks her which way she’s going and she nods vaguely along the street. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Meeting a mate.’ He indicates the same direction. ‘You can join us if you like. We’ll probably get something to eat.’

  She holds up her food. ‘No thanks. I’ve got mine.’

  Still, th
ey set off together. For a while, they are silent, dodging people with bags and buggies. Ron rolls a cigarette with a practised hand and offers it to her. She accepts and borrows his lighter, hooking back her hair, using one gloved hand to cup the flame against the breeze, inhaling quietly while he rolls another.

  ‘So,’ he says after a few more moments of quiet. ‘What brings you to this godforsaken place?’

  ‘You think it’s godforsaken?’

  ‘The house, not the neighbourhood. I like it here.’ He glances around appreciatively at the mixture of buildings and the littered street.

  ‘The house has character,’ she replies cautiously, ‘although I admit it needs work.’

  ‘That’s an understatement.’

  She shrugs. ‘I like a challenge.’

  ‘What do you do?’ he asks curiously.

  ‘I teach, usually.’

  ‘What subject?’

  ‘French and German. But I’ve moved into editing.’ She tells him a little about her old teaching job in Bristol and her work with Agata. ‘How about you?’

  ‘I work at the Natural History Museum. I’m a curator.’ He looks at her sideways and she can tell he’s proud of his job.

  ‘Sounds interesting,’ she says, smiling at him. ‘I’m keen on museums and galleries.’

  ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place – London, I mean.’ He finishes rolling his cigarette and tucks it behind his ear. ‘Anyway, you haven’t said . . . What brings you here? Not the tourist attractions, I assume?’

  She laughs. ‘No. Change.’ It’s mostly true.

  ‘Fair enough. Change is good.’

  They’ve reached his destination. A block of modern flats.

  He presses a buzzer and turns to her. ‘Don’t forget, let me know if you need anything.’

  She hesitates and then says, ‘How about a low-down on who’s who?’

  He raises his eyebrows and adjusts his glasses. ‘In the house? Sure. Come round any time.’

  A tall, dark-haired woman in a smart, long-sleeved navy dress opens the door on St Michael’s Road. ‘Can I help you?’ she asks in an Irish accent.

  Marina shuffles her feet, feeling scruffy in her fake-fur coat and gloves. She gives her name and explains how she’s looking for Sofía Marques. Giving her a curious look, the woman asks her to wait.

  Marina fidgets, peeling off her gloves and shoving them into her pocket. She crouches to tie her lace and when she stands, sees the face of a little girl at a top window. She smiles and waves as another small head pops up.

  The smart woman reappears and invites her in. She is kinder now, her face friendly. One moment of hesitation and Marina steps inside, stopping to take off her boots. The house feels right and she’s trusting her instincts. The little girl from the window has appeared and is peeping through the spindles of the bannister. Behind her is the second child, a solemn boy in Spider-Man pyjamas.

  The kitchen is warm and smells of the roasting meat. Another woman sits at the table, peeling carrots. She’s older, late fifties maybe, with olive skin and black hair. She wears a dark woollen dress and a thick gold necklace, and Marina knows without being told that this is Sofía Marques.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my coming,’ says Marina, quickly. ‘I wasn’t sure if . . .’

  Sofia stands up. ‘It’s wonderful to see you. Ruth telephoned and told me you were coming to London. I was so hoping you’d visit.’

  Her voice is rich and her dark eyes moisten even as her face breaks into a smile. She comes across and takes Marina’s hands in both her own. ‘You’re exactly as I imagined you would be.’ She turns to the younger woman. ‘This is Marina. I had the great privilege to care for her when she was a baby. And Marina, this is my daughter-in-law, Patricia, and those two lovely children hiding in the hall are my grandchildren.’

  Patricia smiles pleasantly, takes Marina’s coat and moves about the kitchen making tea.

  ‘Come,’ says Sofía, leading her to the table like a child, ‘tell me about your life.’

  They sit together and while Marina talks, her heart swells with the warmth of Sofía’s welcome. The children come into the kitchen looking for biscuits and the girl breaks off pieces to feed to her brother. Marina wonders as she often does if she has siblings, living their life with no knowledge of her.

  Patricia sets down cups of tea.

  ‘I’ve been to Harrington Gardens,’ says Marina finally.

  ‘Ah.’ Sofía nods.

  ‘I went inside.’ She baulks at telling the whole truth and is fairly certain Ruth will have left it up to her.

  ‘And has it changed the way you feel?’

  It’s the question Marina has asked herself a hundred times already. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What are you hoping for?’

  Tactfully, Patricia takes the children and leaves the room.

  ‘I suppose I want to know why.’ She looks down at her hands.

  ‘Listen,’ says Sofía softly. ‘Your mother must have felt very alone to have left you. She must have thought she had no choice.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘She put you in a safe place.’

  ‘That’s what Ruth says.’

  They are silent again. Quiet laughter floats through the door from the hall.

  ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’

  ‘No, of course I don’t.’

  ‘I’ve always felt connected to the house.’

  ‘Well, you are, that’s true.’

  Marina fiddles with the teaspoon in the saucer. ‘Why do you think,’ she says after a moment or two, ‘the police didn’t find my mother?’

  Sofía sighs. ‘I suppose it would be impossible to solve every case.’

  ‘But it was all over the news. Surely someone would have come forward – the father, or a member of her family.’

  ‘Perhaps no one knew. Things were different then. Unmarried women hid their pregnancies, especially if they were very young, or if the baby didn’t belong to their husband.’

  Marina rubs her temples. She knows this is true. She has been through archives and read enough stories about mothers who did exactly that.

  ‘And you have to remember,’ Sofía continues, ‘there was no automatic access to legal abortion in the early sixties. Vulnerable women were forced to have dangerous and often life-threatening procedures. In the hospital, we saw many women who nearly died that way. They could even be prosecuted – if the police found out.’

  Marina thinks about this. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’ she says eventually. ‘I’ve read the articles that Ruth saved for me and I’ve searched records, but I might have missed something.’

  Sofía considers. Then she says, ‘I have some articles myself. You’re welcome to look at them.’

  She leaves the room and Marina waits, head in her hands. She is startled when a small hand touches her arm. The little girl has come in quietly and is contemplating her with solemn eyes. How much has she heard? Children absorb moods and emotions, observe actions without understanding them, or remembering what they’ve seen. It’s the nature of memory, Marina thinks, her mind drawn to Agata’s manuscript.

  Sofía returns with a folder tied with a blue ribbon. She sets it on the table and takes the girl onto her lap.

  ‘I kept everything that reminds me of you.’

  Marina holds back her tears as she listens.

  ‘I would have adopted you if they’d let me, but being single, it wasn’t possible. Still, I cared about you very much for those weeks in the hospital – you were so tiny, so vulnerable, they thought you must have come early – and I was glad when Ruth and David came forward. We stayed in touch, you know that, for a while, but . . .’ She stops, blinks. ‘Well. Lives change. People move on and Ireland is a long way from London – from Wiltshire, but I’m so glad we’ve reconnected.’

  Marina holds the folder close, but she isn’t ready to leave. There must be questions Sofía can answer.

  ‘Do you recall a witness who s
aid they’d seen a pregnant woman hanging about the house? Do you think that woman was my mother?’

  ‘I remember the story, but it turned out the woman had a connection with one of the tenants.’ She frowns and stirs her tea.

  ‘Was there anyone else? Any other women turning up, or being spotted?’

  ‘Well . . .’ She puts down her spoon. ‘To be honest, it was something and nothing.’

  Marina leans forward eagerly. ‘Yes?’

  ‘There was someone else.’

  ‘Who?’

  Sofía grimaces. ‘It was after you’d been found. A woman came to the baby ward.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘A nurse approached her and she left.’

  ‘Did they speak?’

  ‘Briefly. When the nurse questioned her, the woman said that she was lost, but I remember feeling uneasy about it. Security wasn’t so good back then, and the nurse said she appeared skittish, which you might put down to embarrassment, but it seemed like a coincidence.’

  ‘Could it have been a journalist?’

  Sofía makes a face. ‘Unlikely, judging from her behaviour – and in those days, there were few female journalists. We decided in the end it was a curious or misguided member of the public fascinated by the story.’

  ‘Did anyone tell the police?’

  ‘Yes, but there wasn’t much they could do and it wasn’t reported in the papers or anything.’

  She frowns and Marina guesses there is more. She is quiet, waiting.

  ‘On the day that you left the hospital . . .’

  ‘With David and Ruth?’

  ‘No, no. You went with foster carers before that. Anyway, on that day, a group of us went out to the car park to say goodbye – including the same nurse.’ She pauses. ‘I didn’t notice anything at all, but the nurse mentioned later that she had seen the woman again.’