Connie looked at him fondly. She’d only mentioned the typewriter to him once, casually, but Harry had remembered her dream of buying it and becoming a writer. To her, now, it seemed like a long-gone childish fantasy, and she felt a sudden, acute pang for the carefree girl she’d once been.

‘I can’t afford it,’ she said.

He patted his pocket and winked. ‘Are you sure?’

Hope rushed through her. ‘Have you pawned the jewellery?’

‘Might have.’ He grinned.

She clapped her hands. ‘But that’s wonderful. Come on, Harry, tell me. How much did you get?’

He scratched his chin. ‘Well now, let me see . . .’

‘Harry!’

Relenting, he produced a paper bag from his pocket and pushed it across the counter. ‘It’s for a necklace and three bracelets. I can sort out the rest, but I thought this might be enough.’

‘Thank you,’ she said more quietly, although her heart surged with gratitude. ‘I appreciate it, honestly.’

‘I know you do.’ His voice caught a little. From his other pocket, he pulled out a bag of toffees. ‘Your favourites,’ he said, holding them out for her.

She took one, enjoying the sweetness on her tongue.

‘They won’t sell those in France,’ he added.

She laughed. ‘No, but they’ll have other treats.’

He regarded her for a moment. ‘Aren’t you nervous going all that way on your own?’

‘Of course not! And even if I was, it wouldn’t stop me.’

‘No, Connie, I don’t suppose it would. But you can’t blame people for being worried about you.’

She looked at him sharply. ‘You haven’t told anyone else, have you?’

‘Not a soul, cross my heart!’

The grandfather clock struck midday.

‘Listen,’ she said quickly. ‘Would you do something else for me?’

Harry’s eyes lit up, hopeful.

‘Will you check on the shop when I’m gone?’

His face fell and he shrugged. ‘Course.’

She reached beneath the counter for the spare set of keys. Handing them across, their fingers brushed and she drew away quickly, flushing.

‘There’s a key for the flat on there too,’ she said. ‘You can use it if you want a bit of peace.’

‘Thanks,’ he replied. ‘But it won’t be the same without you.’

He sounded wistful. She looked away, her resolve weakening, but she pushed down her feelings and a few minutes later he had gone.

21

Marina

January 1992

The man with the cane is in the garden. Marina spots him as she stands at the kitchen window, eating toast for breakfast. She bolts her food and then dashes outside, rounding the path and catching him before he disappears through the bushes.

It is quiet in the garden at this hour. The morning is misty. Blades of wet grass brush her shoes, damp air clings to her hair. Clothes hang limply on the washing line, forgotten overnight.

‘Mr Quip,’ she calls. The harsh rattle of a magpie answers.