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The Separation first published in Penguin Books 2014
The Tea Planter’s Wife first published in Penguin Books 2015
The Silk Merchant’s Daughter first published by Viking 2016
This ebook collection first published in Penguin Books 2017
Copyright © Dinah Jefferies, 2014, 2015, 2016
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Cover: Balcony © Corbis; Tea field © Getty Image
ISBN: 978-0-241-98124-5
The Separation
The Tea Planter’s Wife
The Silk Merchant’s Daughter
Follow Penguin
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
The man smoothed down the lion’s paws with a sponge he’d dipped in a bucket of water, then withdrew a knife from a leather pouch at his waist. He glanced up at the waiting crowd, before bending his head and carefully sharpening the creature’s claws.
The young girl, squatting a foot away, reached out to touch the lion’s mane with her fingertips.
‘No!’ the man shouted, as he pushed the child away. ‘Not yet.’
Her head hung for a moment, but then she glanced back over her shoulder, smiled shyly at the woman who stood watching, and swivelled back to keep her eyes on the creature.
A gust of wind lifted a layer of sand and sent a thousand grains dancing and whirling. The man reacted quickly, dampening down the surface of the beast before more could be whisked away.
The watching woman shivered. Her red-gold hair was cut close to her head, with a Marcel wave to keep it neat, and she wore a pale blue dress with darker blue cornflowers at the modest hemline, with only a thin white cotton cardigan to protect her from the sudden chill.
Once he had satisfied himself that the animal was complete, the sculptor bowed, then walked round the crowd, an upturned hat in his hand. The woman listened to the chink of coins and dipped into her purse.
The sound of horses’ hooves rang on the cobbled road behind the esplanade, but it was not they who drew the woman’s attention. Her eyes remained fixed on the little girl, now kneeling on the sand, and gathering handfuls that glistened silvery-gold in the pale sunlight.
As the milling crowd dispersed, instead of their murmurs, or the noise of screaming seagulls and the waves of the ocean, the tap of hammer on metal filled the air. The woman glanced back at what had once been the grand pier, its elegant wrought ironwork bent out of shape by fire. She caught the scent of cockles in vinegar.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked the child.
The little girl shook her head. There was hesitance, an uncertainty that revealed itself in the child’s slight blush.
‘What about a liquorice stick?’
The woman knelt down beside the child and drew close. Close enough to smell the sweetness of her hair. She took a long slow breath, and exhaled through lips that trembled only slightly. She stood, shook sand from the hem of her floral skirt, and took hold of the girl’s hand.
‘Let’s run, shall we?’
A look passed between them and they raced along the beach, kicking up sand and shells and stumbling and slipping until they reached the waiting nun.
At heart the nun was not unfeeling, and with a kindly look she touched the woman’s shoulder. Just a fleeting touch that ensured the exchange would be smooth, tears kept at bay, and emotion restrained. The child tipped back her head and turned her hazel eyes on the two women, then beyond them to where red and blue flags lined the sandy sweep of the bay.
For the woman, the day had begun with excitement and a sense of elation. Now it was almost over, she could not take her eyes from the child’s sharp-angled, stick-thin body. She patted the little girl’s auburn hair and fixed the moment in her memory.
But it would be different for the child. As her memory receded and blended into the past, she would doubt: wonder if the day, the lion, and the woman existed only in her mind. She would seek to capture details of a time that could not be recovered. There would be resonance – a dress, a smile. Only that. And the woman would continue to stifle her sorrow.
‘Come along,’ the nun said, and took the child’s hand. ‘We need to get on that tram, or we won’t reach the railway station in time.’
The woman in the blue dress stepped away, then glanced back to look at the golden sand lion, aware the incoming tide would soon wash it away.
Three years I lived without my mother. Now, when we talk about the lost years, we put on brave faces, and say at least it made us stronger.
Mum watches us constantly, can’t allow a moment’s inattention. In a locket round her neck, she has a photo of me and one of Fleur, never takes it off, except in the bath. When I look at my picture, I see a kid with an observant face, a lopsided grin, and a smear on the end of her nose. Hard to remember who I was then, but sometimes I feel I can stare myself back into the past, make it live again. And there we’d be, Mum, Fleur and me, and it would still be only 1955, and none of this would ever have happened.
When we went into Dad’s house that first day Mum got back, I’d never seen her so angry. In front of us all, she threatened Dad with the police: for crimes of fraud and abduction, she said. Fleur burst into tears and Veronica, white-faced, managed to calm her down. Dad said she had no evidence, but Mum refused to let us stay the night with him. I think he was bluffing about the evidence thing, because in return for Mum not going to the police, he let us go to a hotel with her. Fleur took some persuading, mainly by Veronica, but the boy and I were excited. Mum has permanent custody of Fleur and me, and Maz chose to live with us. The truth is, Mum’s heart wasn’t in a police investigation. We’ve been through enough, she told me afterwards, and it would be awful for Fleur if our father went to prison.
We don’t let Fleur or Maz see the anger we both still feel when they go to stay with Dad some weekends. I can’t forgive Dad for what he did, and neither can Mum. She is coldly polite with him when he drops Fleur and Maz back. I get the feeling he wants to talk, but she doesn’t. The saddest thing is Veronica left the day we all got back together. It’s been three months and nobody has seen her since. Perhaps Maz was the final straw? Anyway, Dad’s lonely, and maybe that’s punishment enough.
After Mum met her own mother for the first time, she came back to the hotel with red-rimmed eyes, but also with a big smile and the keys to Kingsland in her hand.
I watch her lay the fire in my grandmother’s big sitting room, twisting the newspaper, adding the pinecones and the kindling. She’s still beautiful, in a way more so, but less shiny, and her hair, held up in a large tortoiseshell clip, no longer tumbles down. It’s already May, but Mum’s cold.
She gets up from kneeling by the fire, her cheeks red, and sees us waiting there.
‘Mum, this is Billy. You saw him at Dad’s.’
‘I remember. Hello, Billy. I won’t shake hands.’ She wipes her dirty hands on a rag.
‘Billy’s group is playing at the Mecca Ballroom, in Birmingham. On Saturday.’
‘Oh?’
‘We’re only a support but it’s a great opportunity,’ Billy says.
‘I’m sure.’
‘Anyway, Mum, thing is, Billy’s asked me to go with him.’
‘Not on the motorbike, Mrs Cartwright. She’ll come in the van with me.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Mum says, and starts towards the kitchen, where Fleur’s baking a cake. ‘She’s far too young.’
‘Mum!’
‘Emma?’
We stare at each other motionless. This isn’t the first time she’s forgotten. I pull a face. ‘Mum, I’m fifteen.’
She looks at me with expressionless eyes, as if she’s trying to remember something, then nods her head and her eyes grow damp. ‘So you are.’
‘So can I go?’
‘Well, even fifteen is quite young.’
‘My dad’s driving the van if that helps,’ Billy adds.
‘Okay, I give in. As long as she’s not back too late.’
Billy and I grin at each other, as Mum goes to help Fleur. I’m so excited I jump up and down like a child of ten.
‘I thought you were fifteen,’ he says, imitating my tone of voice, and looking me straight in the face.
I thump him.
Nothing can lessen these days of hope. It’s great to be young, to be going to the Mecca Ballroom with Billy, and to have my mother back. The invisible thread, one end attached to my mother’s heart, and the other to mine, never did break. I always knew it wouldn’t. And more than anything, more than the discovery of my grandmother, more than living at Kingsland Hall, that’s what’s precious.
Only if I lie spread-eagled on the floor do I travel back to when I was eleven. I close my eyes and I’m lying on my tummy again, counting the holes in the floorboards of our bedroom in Malacca. Malaya is such a long time ago and so far away, but I’ll always remember the clouds that looked like puffs of sherbet lemon, and the ribbons of scent that wound round the trees at the bottom of the garden.
No matter where life will take me, and even if one day I no longer hear the sounds, deep down Malaya will always be there, beating at the heart of me. It was where I was a child, before I knew that life could go so badly wrong. And it’s where the smell of lemongrass will stay with me for ever, that and the sound of my mum singing in the morning, a bird of paradise flower clashing with her auburn hair.
Next time we see you coming,
like a one-legged man,
we shall all be looking
for the limb that is not there.
With our smiles
half-way to his laughter,
next time we see you coming
we shall be watching for his grin.
But when we hear you talking –
proud, like a one-legged man,
refusing to stumble –
it is we who shall limp with your pain,
and there will be only peace
when we notice
quietly gathering round your chair –
our one-legged man –
ready to catch you
when, as you must, you fall,
there will be only peace
when we notice
quietly gathering round your chair
the fourteen shadows
of the sunlight of his years.
Dick Holdsworth, 1985
They couldn’t see me beneath the house on stilts. But I spied on them. Our amah, and Fleur, my little sister. I heard sandals on the patio – flip-flop, flip-flop – and Fleur’s sobs as she ran. Then the swish of her old pink rabbit, dragged by its ears over the pebbled path.
Amah’s shrill Chinese voice came after. ‘You come here now, Missy. You spoil rabbit. Carry him like that.’
‘I don’t care! I don’t want to go,’ Fleur shouted back. ‘I like it here.’
‘Me too,’ I whispered, and sniffed a mix of dead lizards and daddy-long-legs. I didn’t mind them.
Beyond my earthy hideout, past the end of the garden, was the long grass, where nobody dared go. But I wasn’t scared of that either.
What I was scared of was leaving.
Later on, when the sky turned lavender, Daddy pointed out across the same view. Now, from an upstairs balcony, a Tiger beer in his hand, he looked past the lawns and over the hills. To England.
‘It’s never warm enough there in January,’ he said, talking to himself and rubbing his jaw. ‘With a raw wind that makes your cheekbones ache. Not like here. Nothing like here.’
‘Daddy?’
I watched his bony face, the large Adam’s apple and straight line of his mouth above. He swallowed, the apple rose and fell, and his eyes came back to me and Fleur, as if he’d just remembered us. He sort of smiled and gave us both a squeeze.
‘Come on, you two. No need to look so miserable. We’ll have a great life in England. You like swinging from trees, don’t you, Em?’
I nodded. ‘Well, yes, but –’
‘What about you, Fleur?’ he broke in. ‘Plenty of streams to paddle in.’
Fleur’s mouth remained turned down. I caught her eye and pulled a face; it sounded too much like the jungle to me.
‘Come on,’ Dad said. ‘You’re a big girl now, Emma. Nearly twelve. Set an example to your sister.’
‘But, Daddy,’ I tried to tell him.
He went to the door. ‘Emma, it’s settled. Sort out the books you want to take. That’ll keep you busy. Just a few, mind. Come along, Fleur.’
‘But, Dad.’
When he saw my tears, he paused. ‘You’ll love it, if that’s what’s bothering you. I promise.’
I felt very hot, and the thought of my mother made me catch my breath.
He opened the door.
‘But, Dad,’ I called after him, as he and Fleur went out. ‘Aren’t we going to wait for Mummy?’
Lydia dumped her dusty case. Out on the patio, her daughters’ bikes lay abandoned beside the jacaranda tree.
‘Emma, Fleur,’ she called out. ‘Mummy’s home.’
She stepped from the patio to glance down the pebble path that led to the long grass. As the sky darkened, an enormous moth, from the fringes of the jungle, smacked her in the cheek. She brushed its black dust off, then ducked back inside to escape the oncoming rain.
‘Alec?’ she called again. ‘I’m home.’
Her husband’s clean-cut features came to mind, skin smelling strongly of soap from the Chinese market, light brown hair cut short back and sides. There was no reply.
She fought off a pang of disappointment in the too-silent house. She’d sent a telegram, just as he’d asked; so where were her family? It was too hot to have gone for a walk. Were they at the pool perhaps, or maybe Alec had taken the girls for tea at the club?
She climbed the stairs to her bedroom, glanced at a photo of Emma and Fleur on the bedside table, and felt such a surge of love. She had missed them.
After undressing, she ran her fingers through her shoulder-length auburn hair, and flicked on the fan. Tired from the journey, and a month looking after a sick friend, she really needed a bath. She pulled open the wardrobe doors, stopped short, frowned. Her breath caught – none of Alec’s clothes were there. Throwing on her loosely woven kimono, she ran barefoot to her daughters’ room.
Someone had left their wardrobe open, and she saw, straightaway, that it was practically empty. Just a few pairs of roughly folded shorts on the top shelf, and crumpled paper on the one beneath. Where were all of their clothes?
What if, she thought, but the sentence died in her throat. She steadied her breathing. That’s what they want: the men in the jungle. To frighten us. She imagined what Alec would say: Hold your head up. Don’t let them win. But what can you expect to feel, when they throw a grenade into a marketplace packed with people?
She spun round at the sound of a cry, and ran to the window. Her shoulders slumped. Just the flying foxes hanging in the tree.
With one hand on her heart, she slid her fingers under the crumpled lining paper in the wardrobe and pulled out one of Em’s notebooks, hoping for a clue. She sat on the camphor wood chest, sniffed the comforting familiar smell, and clasped the notebook to her. She took a deep breath, then opened the notebook to read:
The matriarch is a fat lady with a flabby neck. Her name is Harriet Parrott. She has raisin eyes and a shiny buttery nose which she tries to hide with powder. She slides on little feet in Chinese slippers, but wears long skirts, so you can only just see them at the edges.
Harriet. Had they gone to Harriet?
She stopped abruptly, grasped the edge of the chest, reeling from a rush of heat and the panic that was rising in her. Too much was missing. A note. Of course. He must have left a note. Or a message with the servants.
She ran downstairs two at a time, missing her footing, diving into the downstairs rooms: living rooms, kitchen, scullery, the covered corridor to the servants’ day quarters, and the storehouses. Just a couple of abandoned crates remained, everywhere was dark and empty, the servants gone. No amah’s rocking chair, no cook’s day bed, all the gardener’s tools removed. She scanned the room – no note.
She listened to the rain and, biting a fingernail, racked her brain, hardly able to think for air so heavy it weighed her down. She pictured her journey back home, hours squashed against the jammed train window, a hand cupped over her nose. The pungent odour of vomit from a sickly Indian boy. The distant gunfire.
She doubled over, winded by their absence. Fought for breath. This couldn’t be. She was tired. She wasn’t thinking straight. There had to be a rational explanation. There had to be. Alec would have found a way to tell her if they’d had to leave. Wouldn’t he?
She swivelled round and called their names, ‘Emma, Fleur.’ She choked back a sob and pictured Fleur’s dimpled chin, blue eyes, fair hair parted with a bow. Then, recalling the jungle mists that concealed desperate men, her worst fear overtook any remaining chance of rational hope. Sweat crawled under her kimono, her eyes began to smart and she covered her mouth with her palm.
With trembling hands she picked up the phone to dial Alec’s boss. He’d know what had happened. He’d tell her what to do.
Then, she sat with the phone in her lap, sweat growing cold on her skin, flies humming overhead, the sound of the fan churning, click, click, click, and the flutter of a moth’s wings beating the air. The line was dead.
In the taxi on our way to the port, I couldn’t understand why Mum hadn’t arrived home in time to come, even though Dad had said she would be back. On the last day at our house in Malacca, right up until the end, I’d hoped she would make it, kept rushing to the window to stare her home.
Dad was hopeless at domestic things, and as Mum wasn’t there to organise the packing, I helped Amah do it. Fleur was only eight and would just get in the way.
First, I picked out the pink gingham party dress Mum made for me, and slipped it into the trunk. With a full skirt and little puffy sleeves, it was the only dress I loved. I had cried when I grew too big for it and Fleur got to wear it.
Dad came into our bedroom. ‘You won’t need party dresses,’ he said.
‘Don’t they have parties in England?’
He sighed. ‘Leave your Malayan clothes, that’s all I mean. And we do need to get a move on.’
‘What’s going to happen to the things we’re leaving. Shall I put them back in the wardrobe?’
‘No need. Amah will take care of them.’
‘How long are we going for then?’
My father cleared his throat but didn’t speak.
I handed the dress to our amah, Mei-Lien, who added it to the growing pile of unwanted stuff.
‘What about our Coronation clothes?’
I held up Fleur’s white dress, decorated with red and blue braid, far too small now.
He shook his head, but I slipped my prized Coronation edition of Dandy behind my back. With a golden horse and six white horses printed on the cover, it was too good to leave.
‘Where’s Fleur?’
Amah pointed outside.
‘Cartwheeling, I suppose,’ Dad said. ‘You two can manage on your own, can’t you?’
I nodded.
He was about to go, but glanced across at my bed and paused. ‘What’s that you’ve got?’
‘I’ve written to Mummy.’ I picked up the envelope for him to see.
‘Oh,’ he said, with raised brows. ‘What about?’
‘Just how much I miss her, and that I’m looking forward to seeing her in England.’
‘Okay. Give it to me.’
‘I wanted to leave it on the hall table.’
He held out his hand. ‘No need. I’ll take care of it.’
‘I wanted to do it myself.’
‘Emma, I’ve said I’ll take care of it.’
I had no choice.
‘Good girl,’ he said, and turned to leave.
‘Daddy, before you go.’ I picked up Fleur’s rabbit. ‘What about this? Shall I pack it, or will Fleur want to have it in the cabin?’
‘For heaven’s sake,’ he said. ‘I haven’t time for minor details. Big changes are on their way, Emma, big changes.’
I frowned, not so sure. It seemed to me big changes had already happened. More than three weeks before. That’s when they started, as far as I could tell.
We’d been on our way home after a wedding. A rainy dark evening. At the party Mum had danced in a bright yellow dress, and high-heeled, crocodile-skin shoes. Mum is younger than Dad, and really beautiful, with lovely pale skin and hazel eyes. Dad didn’t dance because of his wartime injury. But it didn’t seem to stop him playing tennis. Once in the car, Mum rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers, and I knew he was angry.
‘Slow down, Alec!’ my mother yelled. ‘I know you’re upset, but you’re going too fast. It’s wet. For heaven’s sake, look at the water.’
I peeked out of the window. We were in the foothills and the road was swimming with water.
From behind I saw the veins stand out in his neck, and I noticed one of Mum’s lizard earrings drop as she reached across to grab the wheel. I tried to tell her, but the car whizzed off to the other side of the road. With his foot still on the accelerator, Dad tried to twist us back over to the right side of the road, but he raced forward round a bend, and had to slam on the brakes.
The car went over the edge with a loud bang, and wedged halfway into a storm ditch, beside a big clump of bamboo.
Mother’s voice cracked. ‘For Christ’s sake, Alec. You’re off your goddamn rocker. Look what you’ve bloody well done now.’
I knew we were in trouble because Mum didn’t swear, except when she thought we couldn’t hear, though I’d heard her swear when they’d both had too much to drink. I’d roll the sounds out, say them under my breath, daring to get a little bit louder each time and finding words to rhyme.
I heard Mum plead with my dad.
‘Don’t leave us here. What if there’s a road block?’ She sounded scared, but it didn’t stop Father.
‘Here. Use that if you need to,’ he said, and threw a pistol on the driver’s seat. ‘Emma. Look after Fleur.’
As soon as he left to get help, the jungle crept closer, with leaves the size of frying pans, and in the branches, eyes that blinked at you. Mum turned round and stopped sobbing, as if she’d suddenly remembered us sitting there, with our bare legs sticking to hot leather seats. ‘Emma, Fleur. Are you okay?’
‘Yes, Mummy,’ we both said, Fleur’s voice more tearful than mine.
‘It’s all right, darlings. Daddy’s just gone to get help.’ Her eyes flicked over us. She was trying to make it sound all right, but I suspected it wasn’t. I knew about terrorists in the jungle. They’d tie you to a tree, and chop off your head as soon as they clapped eyes on you. Then put it up on a pole. I squeezed my eyes shut, terrified of seeing a head grinning at me.
Mum started humming.
Soon it would be completely dark and the stars would come out, then it’d be better. Though on the subject of terror, Mother didn’t know that I’d seen even worse at the waxwork museum. Just past the shrunken heads, there was a Children Prohibited section. I didn’t stay. Only long enough to see tiny waxwork models of white women and children, pinned to the ground, still alive, their painted red mouths wide open in a scream. Coming towards them, driven by a Jap, was an enormous steamroller, normally used to flatten tarmac roads. Only this time it was being used to flatten those people. When I got outside I was sick in a rubbish bin.
Japs were bad. Our parents said so. Though the people in the jungle now, the ones they called terrorists, they were Chinese. I didn’t understand. Our amah, Mei-Lien, was Chinese and I loved her. Why was it that Japs were bad before, but now Chinese people, though only some? It didn’t make sense.
Our car was stuck well off the main road and almost where the bandits were. But even deeper in the jungle lived the spirits who ate children. Our gardener, whose mouth was red from chewing betel nut, told us.
‘If you ever get lost in the jungle, watch out for the hantu hantuan,’ he said. He narrowed his eyes in a scary way, but it was confusing because he never told us what they looked like.
‘Emma, can you move your arms and legs?’ Mum asked.
I wriggled them to show I could.
‘Fleur?’
Fleur tried and could move her arms and her left leg; but when she moved the other, she cried out.
‘It’s probably bruised. Get her shoe off before it swells, Emma.’
I did it, though Fleur struggled. ‘I don’t like it. Where’s Daddy?’
I told her she had to keep quiet and that Daddy had gone to get help. She sniffed a bit, made a few moany noises, and then stayed still.
It was evening time, but in the distance the sound of an explosion broke up the quiet.
‘Mummy!’ we both yelled.
‘Shhh! It’s nowhere near us.’
The sky started to turn brown, and white mist slid down from the mountaintop. But at least we weren’t properly in the hills. Because ‘Ada bukit, ada paya’ – where there are hills there are swamps. And they would swallow you whole.
Eventually Dad came back with an armoured truck that had been on its way back to Malacca. We had to get out while the soldiers pulled the car out of the storm ditch, and by the time we went to bed, it was much later than we’d ever been to bed before.
The next day, Mum didn’t pick us up from school. Dad did. With an I’m not in the mood for questions face, he ignored us when we asked where Mummy was. Just said we were going away to England.
Back home, we rushed upstairs to see if Mum was there. She wasn’t. I smelt the lemongrass outside our bedroom window and thought of her big smile and wavy hair. She’d pin it up, with an orange bird of paradise flower, but by lunch it all came tumbling down. And she was always singing, even first thing.
‘Come on, Em,’ Fleur said. ‘She’s not here. Let’s play outside.’
I shook my head.
Fleur went out to cartwheel, her ankle fine. She always made a fuss.
I brushed my hair. It’s curlier than Mum’s, and redder. Feral hair, Mum calls it. Then I felt under my pillow for my notebook. But as well as my notebook, an envelope came out, addressed to Fleur and me. What a funny place to leave a letter, I thought, as I tore it open.
Darlings, I read.
Suzanne phoned today. I am so sorry, but I have to go to help her. She’s been diagnosed with a dreadful illness and just isn’t able to cope on her own. Her husband, Eric, ought to be back from Borneo in a couple of weeks, so I shouldn’t be awfully much longer than that. Take care of yourselves. Be good. Daddy and Mei-Lien know what to do about school. You can go on the bus. I know how you always want to. If you need any help, get Amah to call Cicely or Harriet Parrott. Their addresses are in the red book.
All my love, Mummy
I put it back under my pillow, and went out to hide under the house.
It was our last day, and more than three weeks since Mum had gone. Just before we left to go to the ship, Amah was still folding useful clothes into our trunk. Trousers, underwear, a sweater or two. I didn’t really care. My pink gingham party dress sat on the pile of unwanted stuff, and I sat on the bed, thinking of the Holy Infant College, my school. Next to a row of palm trees, it was painted white, and there were add-on rooms, with no glass in the windows. Just bamboo shutters that got closed up when we went home.
I felt sad. We wouldn’t be going to school there any more, but my biggest sadness was it looked like we’d be gone before Mum came home. Because if that happened, she’d come back to an empty house. I was pleased that, at least, she’d have my letter.
Mei-Lien picked up my school tunic. ‘You want keep?’
I looked at it and shook my head. ‘No point.’
‘Daddy say we finish pack now. No daydream. Go now.’
I took the tunic, folded it neatly, and put it on top of the pile. I put Mum’s note in the trunk, then slipped in a framed photo of her, hazel eyes all crinkled up. Last of all, I put Fleur’s pink rabbit in. If she had it in the cabin with her, it might get lost, or even end up overboard.
Half an hour later, we drove off without Mum. A lorry had come to take the trunks, and the taxi was taking Dad, Fleur, and me. As we left Malacca, I looked out at the sea, and wound down the window to smell the wild orchids. They were nice, but my mind was full of questions, and I had to pinch my skin really hard to stop the tears.
At the sprawling colonial residence, the Malay servant led Lydia through a large, glass-ceilinged hall, with a crystal chandelier. A framed picture of the queen faced you as you entered, the floor was tiled in black and silver chequered marble, and heavy furniture edged the pale green walls. The formality, intended to impress, made her heart pound.
Harriet Parrott’s husband, George, was District Officer, or DO as they were generally referred to. Apart from the Commissioner, it was the highest position you could hold in the British Administration of Malaya, with a key role supporting Britain’s armed forces. If he doesn’t know, she thought, who will?
The hall led to a veranda, where she was asked to wait under the shade of a mature angsana tree. Glad of protection from the morning sun, she looked about and tried to steady her breath. At the front of the lawn, a crimson-bellied sunbird flew over two bushes of fragrant golden hibiscus. In the distance, coconut palms stretched tall trunks to the sky.
This felt all wrong. It was time to take the children to school. She closed her eyes and saw herself drive there, but her head felt muddled. Something stopped her, like in a bad dream. A voice kept repeating, Where are the girls? Where are they? She saw the main school buildings in her mind’s eye, and willed the girls to race across the gravel at the front, satchels flying.
An aroma of chilli-pepper reached her from the kitchens. She felt her throat close. Was it Friday today? She managed to swallow. Whatever day it was, there would be no drive to school, and once the heat descended, it was impossible to travel without a car. She looked out at the blue sky. The car. She hadn’t checked the garage. Could it be that Alec’s driver had taken them somewhere in an official car instead?
At the sound of footsteps, she turned to see a tall, heavy-bosomed woman approach: Harriet, poised and self-assured. Orange lips in a plump face full of powdered wrinkles, dyed black hair loosely piled on top of her head, and, famous for her citrus colours, she wore only silk. Today it was green and yellow. And though Em’s description of her was less than flattering, Lydia could see why her daughter called her the matriarch.
‘Lydia. Dear,’ said Mrs Parrott, holding out her fleshy hand, nails lacquered in Chinese orange. She wore a half smile in sharp, black eyes.
Aware of the early hour, Lydia gulped, her skin flushing deeply. ‘I’m so sorry – but the phone’s down,’ she said.
Mrs Parrott inclined her head, and settled herself into a wide rattan armchair. Lydia perched on the edge of her own and took a deep breath.
‘Alec and the children aren’t at home. Everything’s gone.’ Her voice rose as she raced through the words, and she held her hands together to stop them shaking. ‘I came by taxi. Sorry it’s so early. I don’t know what to do. As Alec’s boss, do you think George might?’
Harriet raised high pencil-drawn eyebrows. ‘My dear. Have you no idea? Have you been to the police?’
Lydia shook her head, holding back tears. ‘I should’ve gone last night, but I didn’t dare leave the house. Stupid of me. I thought they might come back.’
‘Maybe no need. I’m sure George will know. Thick as thieves, Alec and George.’ She picked up the hand bell. ‘You’re lucky. He’s working from home.’
Within minutes her thin-hipped houseboy, Noor, was sent off to bring the master to the salon. Immediately.
Lydia stared out of the window and prayed Harriet was right. She heard George’s deep voice echoing off the walls of the corridor leading from his office. Even from where she sat, Lydia could tell he was annoyed.
‘What’s all this, Harriet? I am busy,’ he said, exploding on to the patio, his large square frame filling the doorway.
Without missing a beat, Harriet indicated Lydia, sitting sideways to him.
‘Lydia is desperate to know where Alec and the children are.’
Dressed in tropical linens, George came round to face Lydia, his heavy eyebrows meeting in the middle. He coughed, ran a hand through short salt and pepper hair and scratched his chin. ‘Sorry. Didn’t see you there.’
She stared up at the sweat shining on the skin above his top lip.
There was the slightest pause.
‘I thought he’d have left instructions,’ he said, puffing out red cheeks. ‘Been posted north. Up at Ipoh. Bit of a rush job. The chap running financial admin up there kicked the bucket suddenly. Heart I think.’
She let out her breath, felt the room spin, put a hand to her chest. ‘Oh my Lord. Thank you. That explains everything. Thank you so much, George. I knew there had to be an explanation. His note must be missing.’
‘Alec went ahead a few days ago. Maybe he left instructions with the bank. You know, in case the house was reallocated before you got back.’
Harriet nodded. ‘That makes sense.’
‘Bad roads to Ipoh,’ George said.
‘How long will it take?’
‘A couple of days by car, depending on land mines and what have you. Longer by bus, of course. By train could be best. Fantastic Moorish station at Ipoh.’
‘I could phone Alec. Ask him to meet me there.’
‘No phones or postal service working in the district. Lines all cut. Terrific chaos. Not as bad as getting to Penang, but still.’ He dashed off, mumbling a few words to Harriet as he passed.
‘Can you let me have the address?’ Lydia called after him.
He looked back over his shoulder. ‘Just the rest house up there. Larger than usual, fifty or so rooms I believe. Temporary, until they get allocated a house, but they should still be there. Best be careful, travelling alone in the Emergency.’
There was a silence as he headed for the door.
Harriet peered at her.
‘I’m not going to give you the third degree, but you don’t seem too good. A bit less Rita Hayworth than your usual look.’
Lydia dabbed the moisture from her hairline and slapped at the flies settling on her skin. At thirty-one, she was shapely and vivacious, and knew how to make a splash, but apart from the hair, the resemblance to the film star was slight.
‘An old friend has polio. Suzanne Fleetwood. I’ve just got back. I hated having to leave the children for so much longer than I expected, almost a month actually, but her husband is in Borneo and she couldn’t reach him. You know he’s in intelligence.’
Harriet shot a look at George’s disappearing back.
Lydia sighed. ‘I know. Keep it under my hat. The awful thing is they’re shipping her back to England in an iron lung.’
‘A sad business. You will have been a great help to her. But you must feel better now, knowing where your family are?’
Lydia’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh yes. It’s just I was so looking forward to seeing them again.’
‘Have you had breakfast?’
She shook her head.
Harriet’s lips tightened. ‘Right. I propose to get something brought out. You know as well as I do that one must keep up one’s strength in this God-awful climate, or one’s done for. I should know.’
Lydia raised her brows.
‘Oh, it was nothing in particular, but if you don’t take care of yourself you’ll go downhill damn fast. Now, will pancakes do you?’
With no wind to stir the air, Lydia felt damp beneath her clothes. She walked quickly, glancing up. Only distant specks of cloud littered the clear horizon, with not a sign of rain. She hopped on a local bus back to Malacca, and made her way through noisy streets, where, trapped within narrow alleyways, the air was already thickening with the smell of saltfish frying and open latrines. She fought the choking sensation in her throat.
At the bank, two ceiling fans ineffectively blew warm air. She waited in the queue, scalp prickling. At the Parrotts’ she’d made light of it, but now she felt edgy about the journey ahead. She went through a list in her head. Bus timetable for a start, train times too, check the garage, pack. How far was Ipoh? All she could remember was that it was in the Kinta Valley. A hundred miles? No. More like two hundred. Two hundred miles of possibly mined roads. And, if she had to go by bus, it might take days.
In her haste, that morning, she hadn’t pinned up her hair. Hands clasped behind her head, she lifted the heavy bulk off her neck and flicked the hairs that clung to her face. Most English women opted to crop their hair; she hadn’t. Symbol of womanhood, Sister Patricia used to say, but the other women had the right idea; she’d get it chopped. She shuffled forward, flexing her shoulders to release the tension building there.
She thought of her girls, imagined herself in the car, waiting as they came out of school, waving and waving, tearing along the flower-lined paths that wound between squat buildings. At the makeshift stall opposite, lollipops stuck like flags into a board, sold for a couple of cents. The ones she allowed only on Fridays. It wasn’t just the sugar that bothered her, it was the combined sale of sweets and gambling, for concealed round the end of just one or two was the prize of a one-dollar note.
She shook her head. She didn’t want them learning that so young. You had to be so careful.
At last she reached the front of the queue. The young Malay, with soft wavy hair and dusky skin, smiled.
‘I need to withdraw some money,’ she said.
He inclined his head. ‘Certainly, madam.’
‘Cartwright. The name’s Cartwright.’
He turned to face a bank of filing cabinets, and after a moment, withdrew a file.
‘I think fifty dollars should do it.’
He flashed her a look, then bent back down to study the papers.
She frowned. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘According to this balance, there’s only fifteen dollars left in the account.’
‘But that’s ridiculous,’ she said, cheeks burning. ‘We were nowhere near the red last month.’
The man’s lips tightened. ‘Mr Cartwright came in a few days ago and withdrew a large sum.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Something about a journey.’
‘He didn’t leave a letter for me?’
‘I’m sorry. Just that from now on he’d be using a different bank. He left fifteen dollars, and instructed me to close the account after it was withdrawn.’
Lydia took a deep breath, and let it out very slowly through her mouth.
‘So he left no other instructions?’
The man shook his head.
Finely balanced, she managed to keep hold of her temper. The important thing was to get to her girls. But fifteen dollars to get all the way to Ipoh? It wasn’t the teller’s fault, but what was going on?