Dorothy’s housecoats and aprons were pegged out on the line. Connie glared at them and then forced herself to calm down. Dorothy wasn’t to blame for her son’s absence or for the trip to that awful house. It was Connie’s fault for making the decision to sleep with Johnny in the first place, for believing him when he told her how unlikely it was she’d get pregnant.
How stupid she’d been, listening to him. It wasn’t as if she was naive and didn’t know about sex. There had been enough conversations at school, and her mother had always been careful to explain things. Not like some of the other mothers. She remembered one of the girls in her class, Eliza Langtry, who’d screamed blue murder in the toilets when she’d started her period. She’d thought she was dying, literally bleeding to death. The other girls had laughed, but Connie had felt sorry for her.
Before. That was how Connie saw it. Two halves of her life. Before her mother had died and after. Not that she could live by that rule now. Her life had changed again. This pregnancy had become a new before and after.
The end section of the garden was cut off by an overgrown curtain of bushes, plants and leaves. Behind the curtain was a patch of earth and Kenneth’s roses, of all kinds and colours. He had given Connie a tour once, described spraying and deadheading and mulching and knowing your roots. She’d been surprised by his passion. Beyond the roses, next to the old shed and set into the wall, there was an arched doorway that led straight into the graveyard, though it was never used and was blocked by weeds. Connie usually visited her mother’s grave via the lychgate on St Michael’s Road, but now she was here, she decided to take the shortcut, even though she had no flowers as she usually did. On impulse, she seized a pair of secateurs from the shed and snipped the stem of an early, errant rose.
The door was studded wood, dark and gnarly. Connie cut wildly at the weeds covering it, hacking and slashing until she managed to clear them. Dropping the secateurs, she rested one hand against the door and, with the other, reached for the rusting metal ring and twisted hard. The door resisted. She pushed her shoulder against the wood. It didn’t budge. Kenneth. She rolled her eyes and looked about for a key. How did he think anyone could possibly get through this door?
She reached up, fingers fumbling among the dips and crevices in the bricks, searching for a hiding place. As she did so, she heard male voices in the main part of the garden. Her skin prickled and she thrust the rose behind her back. Kenneth didn’t take kindly to theft. He was a born-again honest person, her father joked.
The voices grew louder, and the smell of cigarette smoke drifted on the air. Tiny flies buzzed around Connie’s face. Brushing them aside, she strained to hear the conversation.
‘Don’t be so fucking stupid. Why the hell would I do that?’
Connie froze. She’d never heard Kenneth swear. On the contrary, he considered it lazy and demeaning, a sign of poor intellect. ‘I may not have had the benefit of a good education,’ he would say, ‘but what I’ve taught myself is worth more than schooling ever could have done, and that’s dignity and self-respect.’
Well, he wasn’t being dignified now.
The man responded in a low, tense tone, too quiet to hear.
‘What are you saying, Frank? I’m loyal. You know that.’
More muttering. Connie leaned closer.
‘We agreed, didn’t we? No contact. What did you do, hire a bloody detective to find me?’ The voices faded as the men moved away.
Connie peered through the branches and caught a flash of navy blue as the stranger rounded the house. It was the man she’d just seen in the street. An acquaintance of Kenneth’s. No surprise judging from the look of him. An ex-con? She shivered remembering what her father had said about the gang member who’d been released from prison. Hadn’t his name been Frank?
Stepping from her hiding place and still grasping the rose, she walked quickly to the front of the house, planning to take her usual route to the church as she couldn’t unlock the arched door. But the men were talking on the pavement, which meant visiting her mother’s grave would have to wait. Hiding the rose, she nipped up the steps and into the sanctuary of the hall.
Music blared from Flat 2. She paused to listen to the Beatles singing about money and love. She would miss Eileen if she went back to America to star in a show. Even though they didn’t speak much, she felt like an ally.
The music stopped and shouting took its place. Connie pressed her ear to the door. Leonard was yelling about Eileen not being good enough. Connie’s blood boiled. Eileen might not have been caught out by a baby like Connie had, but she was trapped by Leonard. No wonder she wanted to leave. There was a crashing sound and then silence. Johnny had been fiery, but he had never hurt her, and her father would never have harmed her mother either. But had her mother been happy? Was Connie? There were different ways to be ensnared.
A creak on the stairs. Connie spied little Eva in her purple dress. Barefoot, with sharp elbows and bony knees, she was as wispy as a willow. Connie pushed away her self-pity. It was worse for Eva, with no father and a mother who cried all the time, and hardly any money.
‘Hey,’ she said now, running up the stairs and crouching beside the little girl. ‘What are you doing here all alone?’
Eva looked at her with wide eyes. In the past, Connie’s mother had given Eva treats – a sugar mouse, a slab of toffee, or else she had passed on an item of clothing like the dress she wore now or a toy that had belonged to Connie. Once it had been a jack-in-the-box with a harlequin clown, another time a red and yellow spinning top. Connie’s mother had said that it was a disgrace how people treated the Kolinski family. She said they had suffered too much already and that if she could help in any small way she would. She’d invited them for tea and Connie had taught Eva how to press flowers.
She ran to the flat. Rooting through her wardrobe, she pulled out a rag doll with plaited hair. She felt the softness of its body and the tug of a memory – her mother tucking the doll in beside her at night, kissing both of their foreheads, leaving behind the scent of lavender oil as she softly closed the door.
‘She’s called Sarah,’ she said, back on the stairs, giving the doll to Eva. ‘After my mother.’
Eva smiled and Connie felt rewarded. She took the child’s hand and led her home. In her delight, Eva clung fast, jumping onto each step with both feet together.
The door to the top-floor flat was open and the sound of Mrs Kolinski’s playing spilled through. Connie gave Eva a kiss goodbye, and then, noticing how the child’s eyes were fixed on the rose, she gave that to her too.
‘Watch out for the thorns,’ she said, ‘and don’t tell anyone. Especially that old misery guts, Kenneth. Not a word. It’s our secret.’
Eva nodded. Such a silent, solemn child. Connie doubted she ever said much at all.
Later, Connie stood at the front window. Kenneth had gone, but the man with the blue jacket stood in the street, smoking, taking those sharp drags before flinging down the dog end and grinding it with his heel. One quick, aggressive look at the house and he stalked off in the direction of the main road, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.
16
Marina
January 1992
It’s early morning. The house is quiet, but Marina cannot sleep. She sits up in bed, studying her notes. She has made a spidergram, circles with the names of tenants inside, lines spiking outwards from each one. Eva and Natalia. Dorothy Light. Thomas Littleton. Kenneth Quip. Eileen and Leonard. Victor.
She taps her pencil on her teeth. She needs facts about these people. She could go to Somerset House or maybe a library as Ron mentioned. Her eyes light on the phone book propping open the door. It’s not surprising that there is only one tenant left after all this time, but people often stay in or return to an area. Take Ruth, for example: born in Westbury, studied in Bristol, travelled around India, then moved back to Westbury.
She jumps out of bed, grabs the phone book and replaces it with a dictionary. Back under the duve
t, she flicks through the pages, stops at Littleton and looks for Thomas. She finds addresses with the wrong initials and others with the wrong spelling, a y instead of an i. She tries Kolinski, but there is only N. Kolinski at Harrington Gardens. Flipping to the end of the book, she moves backwards and stops at Wallace. There are several more options here. There’s V. Wallace and then another V. W. Wallace, both in SW16. Could one of these be Victor? It’s worth a try.
It’s too early to call, so Marina gets up. She stands at the front window drinking coffee. It’s a boring street. Blank houses with closed curtains like shuttered eyes. Empty trees with spindly branches. A boy appears at the window of the house opposite. Marina gives a tentative wave. The child stares, but doesn’t react.
At ten o’clock, Marina picks up the phone. She hopes her nerve will hold as she taps in the first number. A woman answers on the second ring.
‘Yes?’
‘Oh,’ says Marina, unprepared. ‘Is that . . . Is that . . . Mrs Wallace?’
‘Yes.’ There is a pause. ‘Who’s speaking?’
‘My name is Zoe Alexander.’
‘Who?’
‘I’m writing an article . . .’ She flounders. ‘I’m trying to track someone down.’
‘Track someone down?’ The voice is disbelieving. Impatient. ‘Look, I’m in a hurry. Who are you?’
‘I’m writing an article,’ she says, speaking in a rush. ‘And I’m trying to find Victor Wallace. He used to live in Harrington Gardens.’
‘Never heard of him.’
The line goes dead. Marina sighs and then quickly taps in the next number. No answer.
To pass the time, she takes a shower. There are two settings she has now discovered that actually work – boiling or lukewarm. She chooses the second and tries not to think about the previous person who stood where she stands now. She vows to chase Wayne as she emerges, shivering, and then hauls on her dressing gown and thick socks before bundling her hair up in a turban.
It’s an effort to take care of her hair. Maybe she should cut it off. A short, sharp pixie cut. Would it suit her? She stares grimly into the mirror. Since she’s been in London, she’s lost weight. Her face is thinner. There are dark smudges beneath her eyes. If Ruth were here, the roast would be in the oven, the crumble made in moments. She’d be piling up Marina’s plate, talking with studied nonchalance about anything that came into her head, pretending she wasn’t worried.
She’s always been like that, fussing in a bid to hide concern. Yet Marina never had typical teenage issues – was never prone to angst about appearance, eating disorders, emotional outbursts or even frequent tears. On the contrary, she’d been the sensible girl at school, the one who listened and gave advice.
Maybe, Marina thinks now, it was because she’d had other things to worry about. Like who she had actually inherited her looks from.
She does her make-up, piling on black eyeliner and mascara, painting her lips red. By the time she’s dried her hair and pulled on a pair of trousers and a thick, black turtleneck jumper to keep her warm, an hour has passed.
She settles in the armchair and calls the second number once again. This time, a man answers. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello.’ She gets to the point. ‘I wonder if I could speak to Victor Wallace.’
There is a long pause. Marina’s shoulders slump. Another wrong number.
Then he says, ‘Yes. That’s me. Who am I speaking to?’
Her heart accelerates. ‘My name is Zoe . . . Zoe Alexander, and I’m writing an article.’ She stops.
The man’s loud breathing travels down the line.
‘It’s about an incident that happened in the 1960s.’
‘Are you the police?’
‘Oh no, nothing like that.’
‘A journalist?’
‘No. I mean, I work freelance.’
‘So, what has this to do with me?’
‘Well.’ She transfers the receiver to her other ear. Despite the cold, her skin feels hot. ‘The article is about an abandoned baby.’ She pauses again before saying, ‘The baby was abandoned in the house you used to live in.’
More loud breathing.
Marina shifts in her seat. ‘It was 24 Harrington Gardens. I don’t know if you remember . . .’
‘Yes,’ Victor says, ‘of course I remember. What exactly do you want?’
She swallows, moves the receiver back again. ‘I was wondering, if it would be possible to meet you. I’m looking for people to interview, tenants I mean, connected with the house.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘In the phone book.’
‘Have you interviewed anyone else?’
‘No,’ she admits. ‘Not yet. I thought . . . I thought I would try to find you first.’ She injects a smile into her voice, a hint of flattery. ‘I’m guessing as you still live in the area, you know it very well.’
‘Well, yes, I do.’
There. It has worked. She can hear his satisfaction.
‘So . . . would you agree to meet?’
There is another long pause. Then he says, ‘All right. Since you tracked me down you’ll know my address. You can come tomorrow.’
‘Actually, I wondered if we could we meet in a cafe. I’ll buy you a coffee to say thank you.’
‘All right.’ There is a hint of amusement in his voice. He goes on, ‘I’ll meet you in the greasy spoon on the corner of my road. The Golden Egg. Midday.’
She agrees and they finish their call. She considers his voice and wonders what he looks like. She can’t remember having seen his photo. Jumping up, she grabs the folder. Sorting through the cuttings, she finds the quote that originally gave her his name.
Victor Wallace, who lives in the basement flat, said, ‘I was with my girlfriend at the time. When I arrived that afternoon, the baby had gone.’
Sounds like an alibi, Marina thinks cynically. She searches again in case she has missed a photo. There are photos of Kenneth Quip, Natalia Kolinski, Eileen Clarke and Leonard Crisp but none of Victor Wallace.
Neither, now she comes to think of it, is there a photo of Thomas Littleton. No quotes either. Only a reference from Kenneth Quip, the landlord, who describes the layout of the house and mentions that the residents of Flat 4 had been away. Marina frowns at the use of the plural. She has only ever come across one name for that flat – Thomas Littleton. Who else lived there?
The next day, Marina arrives early at The Golden Egg. The place is almost full, the atmosphere lively. She scans the men at the Formica-topped tables. Many are young builders in hi-vis jackets and none are candidates for Victor, who Marina guesses must be at least fifty.
She orders coffee and settles by the window. Outside, drizzle turns to rain and drops of water trickle down the glass. A man opens the door and steps inside. He is middle-aged, tall and broad, in a green jacket and black trousers. His hair, which is mostly grey, is thick and swept away from his forehead. He is unnervingly good-looking. Their eyes meet and he smiles, lifting one corner of his mouth. There is a fleck of shaving foam on his chin and when he comes closer she catches the scent of spicy aftershave.
‘You must be Victor,’ she says, standing and holding out her hand. ‘I’m Zoe. Thank you for agreeing to meet me.’
He stares with unashamed admiration, holding her hand for a fraction too long, pulling her towards him as if to see her better. Marina stares coolly back, keeping it clinical. She is used to men’s – unwanted – appreciation and today she has adopted an efficient, need-to-get-the-job-done image. Her hair is twisted into a tight bun, her make-up minimal, and she wears no jewellery.
Victor insists on buying her another coffee and offers her something to eat, which she declines. At the counter, he orders an all-day breakfast and flirts with the young woman who is serving.
At the table, he sets down her coffee and his tea and then leans back in his chair and stares again. If he had a moustache, Marina thinks, he would give the ends a twirl.
‘So, Zoe,�
� he says, ‘how can I help?’
She blinks, disconcerted by the use of her middle name, despite the fact she gave it to him. ‘First let me say how grateful I am for your time.’ He nods, appraising her still. She clears her throat. ‘As I mentioned, I’m writing an article. It’s about the baby that was abandoned in Harrington Gardens. In 1964.’
He frowns and scratches his face.
She tries to speak casually. ‘It was a girl. The media nicknamed her Baby Blue.’
‘Yes. I remember.’ He fumbles in his pocket and draws out a packet of Marlboro. Shaking out a cigarette, he lifts it to his lips, flips his silver Zippo and the flame catches. He inhales. As an afterthought he offers her a cigarette too.
‘No thank you.’
He leans forward. ‘Why?’
‘I’m trying to cut down.’
‘No. Why are you writing this article?’
‘Oh.’ She looks away and then back at him again. ‘Because I’m hoping to move into journalism. I work in publishing and . . .’
‘No.’ He flicks his ash into his saucer, his voice patient. ‘I mean why do you want to write about an abandoned baby?’
She glances at her notepad, gathers herself. ‘Because it’s an interesting case. I’m trying to find a new angle.’
‘You mean you want to solve the case? Like a regular Miss Marple.’ He laughs.
‘I don’t expect to do that.’ She speaks firmly now. ‘I’m planning to take a broader look at the effects on the community and specifically on the people in the house.’
Victor seems unconvinced, but then he shrugs. ‘Fire away.’
‘So, when did you live in the house?’
‘In sixty-four.’
The Hiding Place Page 12
