She shrugged. He hadn’t said yes yet, but he would eventually, after she had convinced him. Besides, she genuinely believed he would relax if he didn’t have to worry about her.

‘Still. I can’t believe you’re going behind his back,’ said Harry.

‘Don’t say that.’

Maybe he heard the hurt in her voice because he stopped speaking. She touched his hand again. ‘Come on Harry, you’ve always been a good friend and right now I need your help. Please trust me.’

He sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll have to.’

‘Thank you.’ She slid the bag across the counter.

Opening it up, he gave a low whistle. ‘All of this?’

Harry’s mother reappeared, brandishing a bottle of vinegar. Taking the bag, Harry stuffed it under the counter. Connie counted out the money she owed him for the groceries. Harry took it, holding her fingers for too long.

‘When?’ she asked quietly.

‘Day after tomorrow, maybe.’

She nodded. ‘Thank you. I owe you.’

‘Best not say that.’ He smiled, but the sparkle had gone from his eyes and as he rang open the till and tucked her money away, she felt a snag of regret, a memory of violets. He was a good sort, Harry.

19

Marina

January 1992

Marina broods about Kenneth Quip coming into her flat and rooting amongst her things. Not that she has evidence, but still, she has an imagination and in her mind’s eye she sees him clawing through her drawers, yanking open cupboard doors, scanning greedy eyes across her desk.

She telephones Wayne and asks him if the landlord has got any further with sorting the heating. She doesn’t mention her suspicions and nothing he says suggests he knows that Quip has been already. On the contrary, he is apologetic and promises to hurry him up. Maybe she’s got it wrong – although if it’s not Quip who’s been in the flat, that’s even more worrying. Still, despite everything, she wants him to come. It’s the perfect excuse to have contact.

Marina continues with Agata’s manuscript. Agata has escaped to England via Kindertransport. Her parents are in the concentration camp and Marina’s heart breaks as she pictures the little girl alone on a train, clutching her belongings in a single bag. On impulse, she decides to learn more about the subject. She takes a quick look through the Yellow Pages and finds a library a short drive away.

Grabbing her coat, she leaves the house and jumps into her car. The engine takes coaxing before it splutters into life, but she sets off, driving to the end of the street and joining the traffic. The common is ragged today, grass patchy, trees bare. The weather is dull, the sky colourless. She has a yearning for home and its wide-open spaces, the sight of the horse on the hill.