The Hiding Place

by Jenny Quintana

  Despite the cold, Marina wants the window open. The air inside the flat is stale. She puts both hands on the edge of the wood and shoves hard. The frame moves upwards by an inch, enough for a thread of air to limbo through the gap.

  Someone has pegged out their washing, taking advantage of the frail sunshine: a brown dress, an orange housecoat, a pair of tights. A man appears from the side of the house, feet crunching on the gravel. His overcoat hangs loosely and he wears black leather gloves and a trilby, pulled low. He moves slowly, using his stick, pausing to prod at a clump of weeds, to bat away a stone, to jab at the washing on the line. He pokes the dress as if it’s an opponent and his stick is a sword. When he reaches the bushes that partly obscure the end of the garden, he looks back at the house. Instinctively, Marina steps to the side and watches again as he pauses, swivels and swipes at the leaves. Pushing through, he disappears. Marina watches curiously for his return. Perhaps it’s Giovanni, the elusive tenant of Flat 1.

  The day is changing as the sun drops and the shadows lengthen. A stillness hovers over the garden, and now Mrs Hyde appears too, scuttling along the path around the side of the house, carrying a laundry basket that dwarfs her diminutive body. She grabs the dress, the housecoat, the tights, unpegging, shaking, folding. Her white hair is askew, her skirt long. She finishes her chore and then puts the basket down. For a moment, she just stands there, hands on her hips as if she is thinking, and then she hurries down the path in the direction the man took, leaving her washing behind.

  Later, Marina sits at her desk with a blanket around her shoulders. She’s been working on Agata’s manuscript, following her parents’ path into Auschwitz through the barbed wire and the searchlights and the smoke. From time to time she looks out the window, shocked almost to see carefree children passing with their parents, heading for the common.

  Distracted, she puts aside the manuscript, finds her coat and her gloves and goes outside. On impulse, she continues down to the basement. There’s no bell or knocker, so she bangs on the door. A few minutes later Ron appears. His face lights up. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Putting the kettle on.’

  She follows him through a narrow sitting room, noting the blue futon, TV, ornate coffee table, sprawling fern. The kitchen is outdated like hers, but it’s larger and warmer. Family portraits and black and white photographs cover the walls – pictures of past London. Books and papers are stacked in piles on a large pine table that dominates the room. Ron gestures for her to sit. Instead of putting the kettle on, he grinds coffee beans, fills the coffee pot and searches for matches to light the stove.

  She bends to examine the books. They are mostly historical non-fiction, but there are a few novels too. She spots Clarissa and Tristram Shandy.

  ‘Have you always been interested in history?’ she asks, straightening.

  He turns, sugar bowl in hand, and gestures at a photo. ‘Mum’s influence.’

  Marina follows his gaze. In the photo, a younger version of Ron stands beside a tall, elegant, middle-aged woman with grey hair and angular features. Ron has his arm thrown around her shoulders and is looking at her, smiling. The woman stares boldly out at the camera.

  ‘She left school with nothing and had me young. But then she took an archaeology course. I used to go with her on digs. My first memories are of dirt and bones.’

  ‘What about your father?’

  He shrugs. ‘Never met him. Mum was a single parent.’

  ‘Have you tried to find him?’ The question is out before she can stop herself.

  ‘No. I’m not interested. If he wasn’t bothered about sticking around, why should I care about finding him?’

  She bites her lip to stop herself from asking how he knows it was his father’s choice. Families are complicated. She sits down at the table.

  The coffee pot splutters. Ron fusses, setting out cups and saucers, a bowl of sugar lumps, a jug of milk, a plate of ginger nuts. Marina watches, eyebrows raised.

  Reading her mind, he grins. ‘It’s the details, don’t you think? Makes the coffee taste better.’

  She agrees, even though she’s the instant, make-it-quick variety of coffee drinker.

  ‘So, how’s it been?’ he asks, pouring coffee for them both and settling in the seat opposite her. ‘Since this morning?’

  ‘Good.’ She reaches for the milk.

  ‘Still want a low-down on the tenants?’

  She stirs her coffee, adds two sugar lumps and jumps straight in. ‘I’ve already met Mrs Hyde.’

  ‘Mrs Misery.’

  ‘How long has she been here?’

  ‘Forever, I expect.’

  ‘She didn’t want to talk to me.’

  ‘She doesn’t want to talk to anyone. Except God.’

  ‘God?’

  ‘She’s very religious. Goes to bible classes, church every Sunday.’

  ‘That’s fair enough. Does she have a husband?’

  ‘If she does, she keeps him hidden away.’

  Marina laughs. ‘Well, Selena Hamilton was friendlier. She gave me a plant.’

  ‘She gave me one too.’ Of course: the fern in the living room. ‘Biscuit?’ He pushes the plate of ginger nuts towards her.

  She takes one. ‘I haven’t met Giovanni – the guy in the flat opposite me. Although I thought I saw him in the garden. Do you know what he does?’

  ‘Conductor. Not the bus kind. He’s in an orchestra, been in the house for about three years, I reckon – longer than the Hamiltons, anyway.’

  ‘So, he’s a night bird.’

  ‘I guess.’

  Marina nods and sips her coffee. She isn’t sure the man she saw with the walking stick fits her idea of a musician, but who knows. She eats her biscuit, reaches for another and chats a little more about plants and not being green-fingered. Keeping her voice casual, she asks about the pianist.

  ‘Ah.’ Ron’s expression shuts down as he looks at his cup and twists it on its saucer.

  ‘I noticed the name on the post box.’ She pauses. ‘Kolinski?’

  He clears his throat. ‘Yeah. That’s Eva.’

  Marina’s skin tingles. Not Natalia, but a relative. She snaps the biscuit in two. ‘She’s very talented. Is it Chopin I can hear?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Ron. ‘You’re right. She’s good.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘About thirty.’

  Natalia’s daughter, perhaps. ‘Does she live alone?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  His voice is flat. He’s holding back. Marina dunks one half of her biscuit and speaks carefully. ‘So, what’s she like?’

  He’s blushing and now she guesses. ‘Oh. I see.’ She leans forward, makes sympathetic eye contact, hoping the colour of her cheeks doesn’t match his. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s over, although it didn’t go far, to be honest.’ He stops and frowns. ‘She’s got one or two . . . issues. Hold on. Why am I telling you this?’

  She shrugs, smiles reassuringly. ‘I’m easy to confide in.’

  He laughs, picks up the pot. ‘More coffee?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  There’s a mewing at the door. Ron stands and lets in a fat black cat that promptly jumps onto the table.

  ‘Meet Sardine,’ he says, pushing the cat back down.

  ‘Boy or girl?’

  ‘Boy.’ He sets about opening a can, spooning meat into a bowl while Sardine purrs.

  Marina senses Ron is controlling his emotions and guesses he’s been hurt. She is curious and asks gently about Eva’s issues.

  Sardine has finished and is licking his paws, wiping his mouth. Ron reaches across and grabs the cat. ‘She doesn’t get out much,’ he says.

  ‘Why?’

  Sardine struggles on his lap. ‘She’s . . .’ He stops again.

  ‘Agoraphobic?’

  ‘Not exactly. She gets anxious and . . . panicky. Her mother died not that long ago, actually.’

  ‘Oh.’ Marina feels
a ripple of disappointment. He must be talking about Natalia. The only one she thought who might still be in the house and likely to have information. Eva would be too young to remember. Nevertheless, she sounds interesting and Marina would like to know more.

  Ron stands to open the door and Sardine darts outside, but by the time he turns around, his face is closed. The conversation is over.

  Marina takes another biscuit and changes the subject, asking about Ron’s work at the museum. He appears relieved and becomes animated, describing his job. But Marina is hardly concentrating. She’s picturing this mysterious woman in her hiding place at the top of the house, playing the piano all through the night. Eva Kolinski. However young or old she is, she’s a link to the past, and Marina badly wants to meet her.

  11

  Connie

  May 1964

  Dorothy linked arms with Connie as they crossed the main road. Despite her small stature, the older woman walked swiftly and Connie found herself having to half run to keep up.

  Dorothy led her along a few more streets and soon they were in a part of Streatham she didn’t normally go to. The pavements were narrower here, the houses and gardens scruffier, the dustbins overflowing, and there was a rottenness in the air. A mangy cat sprawled as if exhausted by the heat.

  That morning, Connie had woken in a panic, remembering what she had agreed to do. She’d considered telling Dorothy she had changed her mind, that she wanted to wait a little longer – but there was no obligation, and time was of the essence, so what did she have to lose? She’d tried to distract herself by thinking about being in Paris, imagining scenes like paintings with the golden colours and textures of a Van Gogh, or the luminous blue-grey of a Whistler. It would be everything that Harrington Gardens was not.

  Now, though, walking with Dorothy, not even thoughts of Johnny’s temporary home could offer a diversion. Especially when they stopped at a house with a window box full of pink and yellow pansies. None of the other houses had any sign of care or colour. Maybe the flowers were a secret signal.

  A plump woman with silver hair opened the door. She nodded a greeting and, without a smile exchanged or a word spoken, led them into a small room. With its fussy wallpaper, a single armchair, and a vase of lilies on a table, it reminded Connie of a funeral parlour, which in turn made her think about saying goodbye to her mother. The kiss she had planted on her cold forehead and how she had wept, standing in the sunshine, knowing her mother would never feel the heat on her face again.

  Connie clasped her hands together and squeezed away her tears.

  The woman left and a younger, thinner, fair-haired version replaced her. They could be mother and daughter, a family team. The new woman welcomed them and surveyed Connie, nodding as if in approval.

  She explained what would happen: medication, not too unpleasant tasting; a few hours to let the magic do its work; followed by a quick, painless procedure. Bleeding, not too much, a tad more than her usual period, perhaps a little clotting. She addressed Dorothy as much as Connie. Maybe she thought Dorothy was her mother.

  Connie sensed her control sliding away. She dragged it back again, asking questions: How long would it take? How much would it hurt? Could she see the place where it would happen?

  The woman answered patiently, quietly, until the last question, when her smile faded. Connie felt as if the walls were closing in on her. The cloying scent of the lilies mixed with something else – furniture polish, and another chemical smell. She glanced at Dorothy, who wore even more make-up than usual: a brighter lipstick, a heavier application of rouge, a dark green eyeshadow. It was as if they were going on an outing. Maybe it was to cover up the truth of what they were doing: Dorothy, Connie had concluded, was not a transparent person.

  The woman cleared her throat. ‘I don’t recommend you have too many . . .’ She hesitated, searching for the right word. ‘Details, for the moment.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Connie.

  ‘We prefer to ease our –’ she hesitated again – ‘ladies into the right frame of mind. I suggest you go home, take the medicine with you, have a little think, talk it over with a person you trust. And then, when you’re ready, settle yourself comfortably and take the medication along with a nice cup of tea. A little extra sugar will sweeten the bitter taste.’

  It sounded almost as though she was discussing a treat. ‘I’d like to know everything now,’ Connie insisted. ‘There’s no point taking the medication home if I decide not to use it.’

  The woman shifted her weight, smoothed her hair with one hand and glanced at the door. ‘I wouldn’t recommend . . .’

  ‘Oh, but I want to,’ Connie interrupted. ‘I want to be prepared.’

  A second of quiet, a slight nod from Dorothy, and in that instant Connie realised the two women knew each other. Her heartbeat quickened. Who else had Dorothy brought to this place? What about the other girl, the one Dorothy said had been mooning over Johnny? No. Connie swept the possibility away. Dorothy had been a midwife once. That must be the connection.

  ‘All right,’ said the woman, sighing heavily. She led the way to the rear of the house.

  Connie hardly expected to see a room similar to a doctor’s surgery: a narrow bed with clean, white sheets; a sparkling sink; sets of shining metal instruments; the smell of disinfectant. Still, she was taken aback when she stepped into an untidy kitchen.

  ‘Where?’ she said, looking around, hoping to spot a secret door.

  The woman coughed and waved her arm vaguely.

  There was a table pushed against one wall and above it a cupboard. The door had been left half open and Connie could see that it was stacked with a jumble of misshapen bottles, all filled with a murky liquid. She spotted a red contraption made of rubber – a syringe with a bulb in the centre of the hose – and, beside that, a basket of sharp metal objects. Noticing, the woman discreetly pushed the door closed.

  A child’s trike stood in the corner, wheels muddied from recent play. There were remnants of a meal left on the side too, dirty crockery, pots and pans.

  Stepping away awkwardly, Connie collided with the edge of the table.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said the woman. ‘Everyone reacts like this at first, but the alternative is far worse.’

  She told the story of a girl as young as Connie, who’d been refused the procedure by doctors, but hadn’t been lucky enough to find someone like herself. ‘You can imagine what happened next,’ she said. Her voice was soothing, as if she was telling a bedtime story – a fable with a message to be learned.

  Connie put her hand to her mouth. She didn’t want to imagine what had happened to the girl. It was all she could do to envisage swallowing that medication. She saw herself lying on the table while the woman inserted one of the sharp metal objects inside her or squirted a strange liquid from the pump.

  From somewhere in the house, a baby cried. The woman glanced at the ceiling. Connie looked up too, feeling the irony, wondering about the woman’s motivation. Was it to help young women or was it simply for the money? Somehow, she didn’t seem the type to care about a girl’s plight. And what about Dorothy? Whose interests did she have at heart – Connie’s or her own? All those photos of Johnny on her walls, yet none of his art. Maybe Dorothy didn’t want anything – or anyone – to come between herself and her son. His obsession with art, his baby inside Connie.

  ‘No,’ she said with sudden clarity. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  She turned, pushed past Dorothy and ran.

  12

  Marina

  January 1992

  Marina sails about London as if she is mapping it out. She takes long bus rides with no sense of her destination, getting off at the city’s edges and returning the way she has come.

  She walks purposefully through streets and squares and alleyways, never using her A–Z. When she is lost or tired, she hops onto the Tube and travels beneath the capital instead. She crosses bridges and parks and climbs high buildings, examining her world from e
very which way. Spiralling away from the centre, she visits markets and sits in cafes or wanders amongst stalls. From time to time she wonders if a voice she hears in the crowd might belong to her birth mother, or if a place she goes to is somewhere her mother might have been.

  In Streatham, she wanders the common and sits on a bench. A tired-looking woman rocking a pram occupies the other end. Marina smiles, but the woman doesn’t notice.

  Marina thinks of an article she read about a newborn, a girl, wrapped in a blanket and left in a park. She would have been warm, only there had been a storm that night. A homeless man had come across the bundle and taken her to the hospital and miraculously she had survived. Marina has read other stories too, about newborns abandoned outside churches, hospitals and houses; in fields, forests and rubbish dumps. She puts the stories into two camps: mothers wanting them to be found by priests, doctors or well-meaning people; and those who abandoned them to the elements. She thinks about motives: too young, too poor, too alone, too frightened. She imagines the secrecy of giving birth in a bath, an alleyway or a public toilet. She imagines the fear, the stifling of screams and crying in silence. She doesn’t judge.

  The woman stills the pram. The baby wails. Marina tenses and glances across. There is an expression of despair on the woman’s face, but when Marina smiles this time, her face clears and she smiles back. Reaching inside the pram, she lifts out her baby to feed.

  One day, Marina drives to the hospital. How strange, walking through the entrance – the buzz, the disinfectant, the slow-walking patients attached to their drips, the fast-running staff responding to calls.