Greyfriars House

by Emma Fraser

  ‘Tell us more about yourself, Charlotte,’ Georgina said, as Edith divided the pie into quarters and served me a portion, along with some potatoes and carrots, before doing the same for her sister.

  I gave them the bare bones of my life, leaving out the grimmer details about Mum’s death. Instead I touched upon my childhood, and tried my best to describe London for them as it was now. On one hand the bankers with their Porsches and extravagant lifestyles – on the other the miners doing whatever they could to hang on to their jobs and not join the unprecedented numbers of unemployed. I also told them that apparently, in the not too distant future, people would be able to carry their phones around with them. They listened intently, as if every word was a morsel to be gobbled up.

  ‘We try to keep up,’ Georgina said, ‘but it’s not easy without a radio. We do get the paper delivered once a week along with the groceries. So hard to believe that we went to war again and for an island we barely knew we owned. Even harder to believe we have a woman prime minister.’

  ‘Do you go to the Lyon’s tea house in Piccadilly? Is it still there?’ Edith said, more animated than I’d thus seen her and clearly more interested in a world she’d once been part of. She’d spilled some flakes of pastry on her top but made no attempt to brush herself off – I doubted if she’d even noticed. ‘We used to go there for tea, Georgina. Do you remember?’

  ‘Of course I do, Edith. And to the Kardomah for coffee,’ Georgina said with a gentle smile. ‘Do you know of it?’ she asked, turning back to me.

  I shook my head. ‘I think they must have gone.’

  I’d come expecting to dislike my aunts, but was finding it increasingly difficult to do so. Once again, I wondered what had made them shut Mum out. Yet what really could I glean from their manner so far? It was easy to be charming for a day or two – keeping a sustained relationship with a niece required so much more.

  Pudding was rhubarb and custard and once it was served, they asked where in London I lived, and what I did in my spare time.

  I told them about my flat in Bloomsbury but admitted I did very little outside of work.

  ‘But you are young! You should be having fun and making the most of what London has to offer!’ Georgina cried.

  ‘If by fun you mean going out to clubs and bars, I never was much interested in them to tell the truth.’

  Edith gave me an approving glance. ‘Wouldn’t you like to have a beau and get married one day?’ she asked.

  ‘My work keeps me so busy, I doubt I’ll ever meet a man prepared to put up with my lifestyle.’

  A tiny frown plucked at Edith’s brow as if my answer hadn’t pleased her. ‘Don’t you want children?’ she asked. ‘Most women do.’

  It was a very personal question to be asking so soon. ‘It isn’t something I’ve given much thought to. Perhaps when – if – I meet the right person.’ Not that that was very likely. Men didn’t tend to ask me out. My friend, Rachel, said they were intimidated by me. I wasn’t so sure.

  Edith shot a look at Georgina, her frown deepening.

  What did my desire or otherwise to have children have to do with them? They weren’t obligatory. The flash of irritation disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. Perhaps they regretted not having had children.

  Georgina glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and then at Edith. As if obeying some unspoken command, Edith rose to her feet. ‘Would you excuse me?’ The earlier animation had left her face, leaving her looking every day of her age.

  Georgina and I did the dishes together and while I finished drying them she made a pot of tea and set out a tray. I took it from her and we went into the sitting room. Georgina lit the fire as I poured the tea. The room was bone-achingly cold. I had no idea why we hadn’t gone back into the library. I was about to ask when Georgina leant forward.

  ‘My – our – story will take some time to tell. I’m going to have to ask for your patience. I have never spoken about it before, not even with Edith, and parts of it are still very painful to recall. All I ask is that you listen and try not to judge me too harshly. When I come to the end you will have to decide what to do. It will be in your hands. However I must ask you to promise me you won’t make up your mind about anything I tell you until I have finished my story.’

  She certainly had my attention.

  ‘How will I know when that is?’

  She smiled slightly. ‘You will know.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Georgina

  1941

  Georgina settled herself against the mountain of pillows and speared a slice of papaya. As the delicious juice flooded her mouth she gave a sigh of pleasure.

  From the moment she’d stepped off the ship and into the hot, humid air of Singapore and taken her first breath of its indefinable scent, a distinct aroma of dried fish and spices, swamps and drains, and as far away from the soft, sweet-smelling rain of Scotland or the smog of London as it was possible to get, her heart had lifted. She’d made the right decision to come.

  As she’d adjusted her hat, she drank in the riot of colour and sounds of Keppel Harbour.

  The man who was to meet her was waiting to greet her at the quayside. He was wearing white ducks and a panama hat. He had an unremarkable face and a well-cared for moustache.

  ‘Miss Guthrie? I’m Lawrence Murray. Welcome to Singapore.’

  ‘How did you know it was me?’

  ‘You’re the only single lady. Besides, I was told by your brother-in-law’s friend to watch out for the most beautiful woman disembarking.’

  Georgina lifted an eyebrow. ‘And the fact that I’m the only woman with red hair didn’t come in to it?’ When he flushed, Georgina took pity on him. She held out a white-gloved hand. ‘How do you do? I’m delighted to be here.’

  ‘Not as much as we are to see you.’ If possible he turned an even darker shade of crimson.

  One of the porters took her bags and placed them in the waiting car.

  ‘I took the liberty of arranging a room for you in a house just off Beach Road. You’ll be sharing it with two others – Miss Amanda Coe and Miss Jessica Hobbs. I hope that’s acceptable?’

  It had been. Amanda and Jessica were rarely at home and when they were, fun to live with. Something made easier by the number of servants employed to take care of them; servants they seldom saw, but who, as if by magic, took away their laundry, leaving it washed and ironed on their beds, who polished and swept the house, shopped and cooked. Although Georgina was used to being waited on this was at another level. The three women even had an amah each to look after their wardrobe, mend their clothes and help them dress. The garden was tended by even more servants, the rose bushes and other exotic flowers assiduously cared for, so the garden was a constant riot of colour and scent, the lawn kept watered and manicured. Apart from the wide verandas surrounding the house, each bedroom had a small balcony, from where they could see the sea, and if they wished they could walk into the centre of Singapore. Usually, however, it was too hot and much easier to call a taxi or hail a rickshaw.

  In the months since her arrival she’d thrown herself into her new life. Singapore was a hotchpotch of people; Indians, Malays and Chinese by far in the majority, the Europeans – plantation owners from up country, district commissioners, bankers and merchants and their wives – forming a small but distinct and privileged enclave. And it had no end of delights on offer: parties, dinners, dances, picnics to name but a few. Georgina accepted every invitation she was offered and there was no shortage of them. Single women were in demand. Most nights she fell into bed, went straight to sleep and the next day it would start all over again. There was no time to brood, no time to dwell on the past. Georgina was always surrounded by men, a smile, even the merest inclination of her head would have them rushing to be the one to buy her a drink, but lately Lawrence was a constant presence at her side and kept the attention of the other men from her. Yet, despite the constant round of socialising, all the attention, the hollow feeling ins
ide had never truly gone away.

  And now, after almost two years, life in Singapore was beginning to pall. She was tired of the petty rules the British clung to as if they still lived at home. The ritual attached to social occasions completely inflexible; new arrivals left their cards, one left one’s card in return, following up with an invitation to dinner, cocktails, or whatever. It didn’t matter that there were all these places to go, one always found oneself in the same company, having the same boring conversations with the same people over and over again. If it weren’t for the hours she spent at work, then Georgina thought it likely she would go stark staring mad with boredom. Even then, she was little more than a glorified secretary. She typed letters and communiqués, translating them if necessary from French into English, and delivered them, and helped the governor’s aides entertain. She suspected she was there primarily as a pretty face, an amusement, a diversion. She was pretty decent at that.

  Sometimes she wondered if she should go back to Britain. For months London had been bombed relentlessly and part of her felt guilty she hadn’t been there alongside her fellow countrymen and -women, facing up to the Germans, standing shoulder to shoulder, defiant.

  The war might be nearly two years old but in Singapore one would never know there was a war. Nothing, not even the dreadful news of mounting casualties, interrupted the countless rounds of parties, lunches, dinners and other social occasions. Neither was it chic to discuss the war during the course of an evening at Raffles – not over early-evening drinks, or over dinner, certainly not while dancing.

  She sipped her lime juice and speared another slice of papaya. Britain might be suffering under rationing, but here there was a boom. If the exotic vegetables, fish and fruit Malaya had to offer wasn’t enough, one could dine on Sydney rock oysters and smoked salmon that had been flown in from Australia, or strawberries packed in ice from the up-country station of Cameron Highlands.

  As she ate, she flicked through the pages of the Tatler which she had delivered from America, ripping out the pages showing models in the latest fashions. All one had to do was take the pages to a tailor and within hours one would have a perfect copy. It was the same with shoes. One described the colour and the design one wanted, placed a foot on a sheet of paper, the cobbler drew an outline, and hey presto, a few days later one would be wearing them. She had so many dresses and shoes her cupboard was quite crammed.

  She set aside the magazine and picked up a copy of the Straits Times. The headline was about some silly issue with Keppel docks and the supply of rubber, the news of the war relegated to an inside page.

  The only relevant thing about the war as far as Singapore was concerned was that in the aftermath of the battles in North Africa, soldiers had flooded into Singapore and Malaya to get a break from the front line and there was an increasing number of uniforms amongst the evening gowns – the soldiers, sailors, and airmen bringing with them a holiday atmosphere. A large number were Australians. Most of the British wives disapproved of them – they were too loud, too brash, hadn’t quite the manners expected – but Georgina rather liked them. With their slouch hats, relentless good humour and breezy egalitarianism there was something more elemental about them – more masculine than the British officers with their rigid codes of conduct and stiff upper lip. The Australians reminded her of Findlay. Her stomach lurched. Where was he? Was he even still alive? She clung to the belief he was. For him not to be was unthinkable.

  In addition to the flood of soldiers, more British Army Sisters, part of the Queen Alexandria’s Imperial Military Nursing Service – QAs – had arrived too.

  Thinking of the army nurses and Findlay reminded her of her continued estrangement with Edith. In all the time she’d been in Singapore, Georgina hadn’t heard from her sister, despite writing countless letters. Harriet had written, of course, and she’d told her that Edith had joined the QAs and, following a stint in Peebles undergoing military training, had been sent abroad. Being abroad wasn’t an excuse not to write. Naturally there had been no mention of Findlay.

  Her appetite gone, she pushed her breakfast tray aside and threw back the mosquito net. Although she was reasonably acclimatised to the heat – she no longer went an embarrassing shade of puce – it was still almost unbearable, the fan chugging away on the ceiling more prone to push the humid air around the room rather than disperse it. The heat, along with the mosquitoes and other crawling insects, was one of the things she loathed about Singapore. Often, as she had last night, she slept naked finding even the sheer silk of her nightdress added unnecessary heat. Shrugging into her silk kimono, another purchase from Chinatown, she flung open the window and stepped out onto the balcony. Almost immediately the heavenly scent of jasmine and spices flooded her nostrils.

  On a clear day, from here, if she stood on tiptoe, she could just about make out the ships steaming towards the port. Always busy, today it was jam-packed with ships and boats, every size and variety, until it was impossible to imagine how they were able to move, let alone enter or leave the harbour. A shiver of unease ran up her spine. That’s where it would come from – the attack. If it came. When it came. One of the advantages (or disadvantages depending on one’s point of view – sometimes ignorance was bliss) of her job at Government House was that she knew things no one else did. Of course she was forbidden to say anything and not everyone at the office agreed the Japanese would attack, but she’d read enough memos as she’d carried them from one office to another to have formed her own opinion.

  She glanced at her wristwatch. She was expected at the Tanglin club for a tennis four, followed by lunch, which as usual would go on well into the afternoon. Then home for a nap before dinner at Raffles with Lawrence. Dear, boring Lawrence. He was pestering her to give him an answer. She was approaching twenty-five, quite incredible when she thought of it, and people expected her to choose someone to marry. Whenever they made pointed remarks to that effect, she’d laugh and quip that Singapore was so full of attractive, eligible men, how on earth was she supposed to choose one?

  Not everyone found her response amusing. The tedious matrons and planters’ wives certainly didn’t. They disapproved of her. As a single woman, disinclined to follow the rules and without a mother to try and matchmake for her, she knew she cut a slightly scandalous figure. Both Amanda and Jessica, the women she’d shared the house with when she’d first arrived, had left. Amanda to Australia and Jessica back to England to marry her sweetheart there. It wasn’t really the done thing that she had stayed on by herself. But when had she ever done the right thing?

  However, her standing ensured that no one dared slight her, preferring instead to murmur about her behind their gloved hands or to put her down as eccentric. She couldn’t give a fig what they thought of her.

  Furthermore, a small voice niggled, she hadn’t met anyone who had come close to making her feel the way Findlay had. The hollow feeling in her stomach spread to her chest.

  ‘Missy Gutrie, your bath is ready.’

  She’d been so absorbed in her thoughts she hadn’t heard her amah come up behind her. Then again she rarely did. Tsing Tsing never wore shoes and was quiet as a cat.

  ‘What dress will you wear for lunch?’

  Georgina smiled. Tsing Tsing was Chinese or Malay – she wasn’t sure – tiny with thick dark hair and solemn dark eyes. Georgina stretched her arms above her head. ‘I don’t know. You choose. Perhaps the white shift?’

  Georgina went back inside to the relative cool of her room and into the bathroom. The bath was run, Tsing Tsing had thrown in a few petals to scent it and had already laid out her tennis things. Now she was considering each dress in Georgina’s wardrobe for a few seconds, before flicking it across with a decisive click.

  Tsing Tsing pulled out a frock and held it up for Georgina’s inspection. ‘This one?’ It was mainly white but with a blue collar and matching belt. ‘Mr Lawrence like it. And it makes your eyes bluer.’

  Georgina took it from her. It wasn’t her favo
urite but it would do. She wrapped her hair in a bandana to stop it getting wet in the bath. She really had to decide what to do about Lawrence. It wasn’t fair to continue to use him to deflect other men’s attentions. She smiled grimly to herself, irritated. How she hated having to make decisions.

  It was really too hot for tennis but they made an attempt at it; Georgina partnered by Lawrence and Grace by her husband, Bill. As the men quibbled whether Grace’s serve had been in or out, Georgina shared an exasperated smile with Grace. The men took the game far too seriously.

  ‘Who cares?’ Georgina said. ‘Why don’t we call it a draw and have a drink instead? It’s past twelve, isn’t it?’ Midday was the acceptable hour to have the first drink of the day.

  ‘I’m up for that,’ Grace said, tugging Bill away from Lawrence. ‘I can barely hold my racquet my hands are so damp.’

  Bill and Lawrence knew each other from the Foreign Office. Lawrence was now a major with the army and responsible for intelligence but neither Georgina nor Grace were exactly sure what Bill did.