Another customer comes in and Crystal goes to serve her. While they are talking, Marina looks more closely at the art postcards. The colours have dulled but she can still appreciate something of their original richness. She touches the glass and a tingling sensation travels through her fingers and along her arm. Stepping away, she laughs at herself. She has never been religious, despite trips to church with David, and there’s no danger of her converting now.

Still, the pictures resonate. Especially the one of the Madonna. She recalls a school trip to the National Gallery. What had they learned about religious art? The artists had used the most expensive colours when depicting the Virgin Mary. That blue. What was it called? Ground from a precious stone, lapis lazuli. Even on a faded postcard, its beauty is obvious.

The original must be spectacular.

20

Connie

June 1964

The basement was worse than Connie had imagined.

Victor was out, thank God, and she hoped he wouldn’t return before she could at least sluice the black-stained walls and sweep and mop the floor. He had already removed the mouldy carpet, rolling it up as if there was a body inside and dumping it at the front of the house.

Harry had failed. When she’d gone to the shop to ask him whether he’d pawned her jewellery, his mother had sent him to the back and served Connie herself. Cutting the cheese, her movements were rapid – slicing, stinting – and then, lips thin, she had pushed the packet across the counter, taken the money and muttered, ‘Leave him alone. Girls like you.’

Girls like you. The words had stung. Had she hurt Harry that much? Tears in her eyes, she had hurried away. Halfway along the street, Harry had come running. ‘Connie, wait, you’re killing me.’ Only this time there had been no smile to go with the joke, just an explanation. The owner of the pawn shop had apparently disappeared, along with his haul, including, Connie realised with a wrench, the necklace she had originally pawned. Now Harry had to find another contact, and that would take time.

The problem was, she didn’t have time, which was why she had agreed to clean the flat for Victor, so long as he paid her the going rate. Every little would help.

She stood in the dismal front room, dressed in an old apron. The only view was of the metal stairs leading to ground level. Connie could see the foot of the maple tree, the railings, and the legs of people in the street: first a pram, followed by a mid-length skirt, tights and brogues; then the hem of an emerald coat, smart shoes with buckles, which stopped for a few moments before moving quickly on, just as Mrs Kolinski’s pencil skirt came into view along with Eva’s purple dress, the one that used to be hers.