‘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.