The memory leaps forward like an old cine film. Now Little Eva is standing again at the top of the stairs, alone this time. The image is strong as if a spotlight is on her and she is about to perform on stage. She is wearing a purple dress that is way too big for her. When she twists, the material swirls and caresses her legs like butterfly wings or feathers. The spotlight shifts until she is slightly off centre. And now there are sounds in the dreamy sequence. The piano behind her and voices below. The voices are arguing and she doesn’t like it so she covers her ears. There is warmth running down her legs and she realises she has wet herself and she is ashamed because her lovely dress is ruined. Tears well in her eyes and she squeezes them away with the palms of her hands. When she looks again, there is a space at the bottom of the stairs. The voices and people have gone.

In the present, Eva concentrates. Chopin is fading. Toby is finishing. He plays the last note. They talk about what he can do to improve. She explains how he can put more expression into his playing, how he can lift his hands more delicately and place them more correctly. She tells him what to practise and they arrange their next lesson.

When he leaves, she closes the door behind him and listens to his clattering tread on the stairs. She smiles, thinking of the contrast between his clumsy feet and his delicate hands. She can identify with such a disconnect, but in her case the disconnect is inside her head.

She crosses the room and touches the rose. A petal falls and she draws back her hand. Her head still aches. She should take an aspirin. Maybe she should call Ron and tell him she has changed her mind about seeing this woman. The prospect has clearly disturbed her. She walks to the window and opens it a crack. A wind is picking up. It stirs the branches of the maple tree and swirls dead leaves across the road. She touches the glass, feels the familiar precariousness as she listens to the call of a lost gull overhead, the sound like an abandoned animal, or a baby crying for its mother.

18

Connie

May 1964

The next morning, Connie came out of her flat and almost immediately Dorothy appeared from hers.

‘There you are, my dear. I’ve been worried about you.’ She clicked on the light.

‘No need,’ replied Connie, but her hands were shaking as she turned her back and closed the door. She’d had a terrible night and spent hours awake, staring into the darkness, thinking about that house, that kitchen, those awful implements.

‘What made you run away?’ said Dorothy. ‘You needn’t have done that, you know. You could have told me how you felt and I would have come with you.’