‘Well, there’s the decoration as I mentioned.’ He pauses as if resigned to her rejection. ‘We have other properties, of course, if you’d prefer a smarter option. There’s a flat in Clapham Common, non-smoking, professional required, only the landlord is insisting on references and wants a deposit and two months in advance. Or there’s a maisonette in Tooting Broadway that only needs a lick of paint.’

Marina rubs her temples and looks out the window. In the dusk, the horse glows ghostly white. If she squints she can almost see its legs moving, ready to gallop across the plain. A foolish fantasy. The horse is tethered, but she is not.

‘Thank you,’ she says, ‘but I’d like to look at Harrington Gardens.’

‘Lovely! Right!’ A few more exclamations and they arrange to meet on the following Wednesday.

Afterwards she calls a friend and suggests a night out. She pulls on her favourite black dress with lace sleeves and scalloped edges, brushes her hair and applies red lipstick. When she looks at herself in the mirror she frowns. It takes a moment before she realises what has unnerved her: she is exactly like the image she created of her mother so many years ago.

4

Connie

April 1964

‘Peppermint?’ Doctor Franklin leaned across his desk and held out the tin.

Connie took one. Outside the surgery, a robin landed on the window ledge. Some people believed the appearance of a bird was a supernatural message from a loved one, but to Connie, the robin just seemed like, well . . . a robin.

The doctor folded his arms. He had a heavy build, a large, bald head and a nose that was too small for his puffy face. Connie noted the thick gold wedding band, his rough fingers with their hairy knuckles. How different from Johnny’s soft skin and smooth chest. Her breath caught in her throat as it always did when she thought about Johnny. She tried to focus and licked her dry lips. The room felt stifling. An electric wall fire was switched on full.

‘What can I do for you?’ said Doctor Franklin.

How should she begin? She had rehearsed the conversation, speaking aloud to her reflection in the mirror, but each time the dialogue had turned out differently and she had no idea what to say.

Time had gone by with no sign of her period. For a while she had tried to forget about it. She had worked in the bookshop, cared for her father, cleaned and cooked. Every day she had searched the post box, longing for a letter from Johnny.

The days weren’t so bad because she had plenty to do, but at night she lay awake staring into the darkness, thinking, imagining. She told herself it would be all right. Her period would come. It was only a matter of time. But another night passed, and then another and there was no blood on the toilet tissue.