The Silk Merchant’s Daughter
Page 1
Dinah Jefferies
* * *
THE SILK MERCHANT’S DAUGHTER
Contents
History of Vietnam Timeline
Map
Prologue
1: THREADS OF SILK
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
2: MOON IN THE WATER
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
3: MISTS AND CLOUDS
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
4: THE SMELL OF FISH
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Follow Penguin
The Silk Merchant’s Daughter
Dinah Jefferies was born in Malaysia and moved to England at the age of nine. She worked in education, lived in a commune and exhibited work as an artist before deciding to follow her dream of becoming a writer after losing her retirement fund in the financial crash. To motivate herself, Dinah stuck Post-its around her house saying, ‘you will write a bestseller!’ Dinah is the author of three novels: The Separation, The Tea Planter’s Wife – a number one Sunday Times bestseller – and The Silk Merchant’s Daughter. She lives in Gloucestershire.
By the same author
The Separation
The Tea Planter’s Wife
History of Vietnam Timeline
1787
French involvement in Vietnam begins. Versailles Treaty creates alliance between French King Louis XVI and the Vietnamese Prince Nguyễn Ánh.
1840s–1890s
French colonization of Indochina (Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos). France divides Vietnam into three areas: Tonkin, Annam, Cochin-China.
1927–30
In the north two heavily repressed communist groups are formed to resist the French.
1940
During World War II, Japan invades and occupies Vietnam, allowing French colonial government to continue for a time.
1941–4
The Vietminh Independence League is organized by Ho Chi Minh who emerges as a leader of anti-Japanese resistance.
1945
The Japanese take over government from the French (briefly). After the Japanese surrender, the Vietminh, led by Ho Chi Minh, take control (also briefly). British and US military forces assist the French to re-establish colonial rule.
1946
The Vietminh resist. French forces shell the port of Haiphong. The first Indochina War (or French War) begins.
1946–54
During the Indochina War, China and the USSR support Ho Chi Minh; the US supports France in order to halt the spread of communism.
1954
With popular support the Vietminh forces surround an isolated French military outpost in the town of Dien Bien Phu. Twelve thousand French troops are trapped. France surrenders. The Geneva Accords are signed dividing Vietnam into North and South, with national elections to be held in two years.
1955–6
With support from the US, Ngo Dinh Diem declares himself president of South Vietnam, refusing to hold national elections.
1957–9
Weapons and men from North Vietnam begin infiltrating the South. Beginning of communist insurgency in the South.
1960
The Vietcong, or National Liberation Front, are formed to fight the US in the South.
1964
A North Vietnamese patrol boat attacks a US destroyer.
1965
US combat troops arrive in Vietnam, beginning the American–Vietnam War. The US drop more tonnage of bombs than are dropped in the whole of World War II.
1973
The US withdraws troops following Paris Peace Agreements negotiated by Nixon and Kissinger but hostilities continue in the South.
1975
Communists take Saigon. Last remaining US citizens are evacuated. Vietnam is unified under communist rule and Saigon is renamed Ho Chi Minh City.
Prologue
Submerged, she moves in tumbling slow motion, her long hair swirling around her head. Spellbound by golden light pouring through the water, she kicks her legs and thrusts her body upwards, following the bubbles of her breath as they stream towards the surface. The flat sun splinters, spreading droplets glittering far across the water. She throws back her head, gasps for air, sees her sister’s face. Seconds pass. Dazzled, as the world filters through, she raises a hand to wave, opens her mouth to shout. But the water swallows her again. The river roars as she treads water, its voice echoing with thuds and thumps. Thwack. Thwack. Despite the need to shout for help, she can’t make a sound. She’s desperate to breathe but knows she cannot. She tries to swim, but something saps her strength. Above her, the iridescence fades. She starts to sink. Deeper down, the darkening river is cold, and as each pulse of light grows fainter, it is happening too fast. She tries to roll over, tries to climb a watery ladder to the top, but the river is too powerful and her feet are slipping through the gaps. Images of home begin flooding her mind, her legs grow heavy and, as the river sucks the struggle out of her, she feels as if she’s floating in the depths. She is not floating, but drowning.
1
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THREADS OF SILK
May to early July 1952
1
Hanoi, Vietnam
Nicole sniffed air heady with the scent of wild gardenia, the shiny green leaves and fragrant white flowers of the shrub carpeting the partially shaded area of the garden. She glanced down from her bedroom window and spotted her father checking that everything was perfect outside. Still a handsome man, his well-cut dark hair, with just a scattering of silver, made him seem especially distinguished and, although it was irritating that he was using her eighteenth birthday party to show off the garden, she had to admit how pretty he’d made it. Incense burned at the French windows of their honey-coloured villa and the garden ponds reflected bright colours from strings of paper lanterns hanging from the branches of two enormous frangipani trees.
Nicole took one last look in the mirror and deliberated. Should she pin a single fuchsia at the side of her long black hair to match the Chinese-collared dress she’d had made for today? The bodice clung to her slim frame like a second skin and, as she moved, the skirt swirled and fell just short of the floor. She listened to Edith Piaf singing ‘Hymne à l’amour’ on the wireless, glanced out of the window again and, deciding against the flower, saw that her sister, Sylvie, was now walking at their father’s side, the two of them with their heads close together as they so often were. For a moment Nicole felt left out and swallowed a brief flash of envy. She ought to be used to it by now, but even before she’d combed her hair or brushed her teeth, her sister looked beautiful; wavy auburn hair, chiselled cheekbones and a perfectly tilted French nose saw to that. Tall, willowy Sylvie had inherited their French father’s looks, while Nicole resemble
d their long-dead Vietnamese mother and felt conscious of her amber complexion. She drew back her shoulders, shrugged the moment off and left the bedroom; she wasn’t going to let anything spoil her day.
As she strolled through the large, high-ceilinged room leading to the garden, two shining brass-bladed fans freshened the air. The room, like the rest of their home, was elegant and stuffed with exquisite antiques. From her spot in the open doorway she caught sight of a couple of old school friends, Helena and Francine, self-consciously fiddling with their hair in a corner of the garden. She went over to be kissed and hugged. As they chattered about boyfriends and the exams they’d passed, the garden was filling; by the time Nicole finally made her excuses, she saw the French guests had already arrived and were now smoking and drinking, while some of the wealthy Vietnamese had started to promenade in their silks. She noticed a tall, broad-shouldered man in a pale linen suit approach her sister and something about him made Nicole stare for a moment or two. Then she smoothed her hair, drew back her shoulders and went across.
Sylvie touched the man’s arm and smiled at him. ‘Let me introduce you to my sister, Nicole.’
He held out a hand. ‘I’m Mark Jenson. I’ve heard a lot about you.’
She took his hand and glanced up at his face, but the intense blue of his eyes startled her and she had to look away.
‘Mark’s from New York. We met while I was over there,’ Sylvie was saying. ‘He travels all over the world.’
‘It’s your birthday, right?’ he said, and smiled at Nicole.
Nicole swallowed and struggled to find her voice but luckily Sylvie interrupted. ‘There’s somebody I just need to have a word with.’ She waved at a dumpy woman on the other side of the garden, then turned to Mark and giggled as she touched his hand. ‘I won’t be long. Nicole will look after you.’
Mark smiled politely. For a moment the air seemed too thin and Nicole’s breath failed her. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, then looked up at him properly and tried not to blink too much. His eyes were the colour of sapphires, made even brighter by the contrast with the deep tan of his skin.
‘So,’ she said eventually.
He didn’t speak but was still gazing at her.
Suddenly self-conscious, she touched her chin. Was there something on her face?
‘I didn’t expect you to be so pretty,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ she said and felt confused. ‘I’m sure I’m not.’ But what had he expected and why was he expecting anything at all?
‘Sylvie spoke of you when we were in the States.’
Her thoughts slowly untangled. Of course Sylvie had spoken about her. It was only natural to talk about your family, especially when away from home.
She smiled. ‘Then you know I’m the black sheep.’
He flicked away a lock of hair that kept falling over his right eye. ‘Fire and marquee do come to mind.’
At his gentle teasing, Nicole’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh God, no! She didn’t tell you about that?’
He laughed.
‘I was only thirteen and it was an accident. But this isn’t fair, you’ve already heard stories about me yet I know nothing about you.’
An impulse passed through her. As if he too felt it, he reached out a hand, but she realized it was only to indicate the way. ‘Let’s pick up some champagne and then why don’t you show me round? I’ll tell you everything you want to know.’
As they moved on, a little of the inner tautness she’d felt since being introduced released its grip, though at just five foot two, she felt tiny beside him and wished she’d worn higher heels.
A waiter in a white suit approached with a tray. Mark accepted two glasses and handed them both to Nicole. ‘Do you mind me smoking?’
She shook her head. ‘You don’t sound as if you’re from New York.’
He took out a packet of Chesterfields, lit one and then held out his hand for a glass. Their fingers touched and Nicole felt a jolt run up the underside of her bare arm.
‘I’m not. My father has a small dairy farm in Maine. I grew up there.’
‘What took you away?’
He stood still. ‘Thirst for adventure, I suppose. After my mother died my father did his best but it was never the same.’
The tone of his voice had changed and she recognized the suppressed sadness in it. ‘My mother died too,’ she offered.
He nodded. ‘Sylvie told me.’
There was a moment’s silence.
He sighed again and smiled as if remembering. ‘I did all the usual country things – fishing, hunting – but my passion was motorbikes. Dirt-track racing. The more dangerous the track the more I loved it.’
‘Didn’t you get hurt?’
He laughed. ‘Frequently! But nothing too serious. It was mostly the odd broken ankle and a few cracked ribs.’
She was close enough to him to smell a warm spiciness on his skin. Something about him made her feel happy, but she twisted away slightly and looked up at a sky shot with stars, listening to the sound of cicadas and night birds shuffling in the trees. Mark had taken a step away and she saw that his height gave him that loose-limbed way of walking Americans had in movies; a nonchalant walk conveying ease and confidence.
‘People say May is the last month of spring in Hanoi, but it’s so warm tonight it feels like summer already. Would you prefer to go indoors?’ she said.
‘On a night like this?’
She felt exhilarated and laughed. His short light-brown hair had a curl to it and was now tinged with gold. Someone had lit the torches and the light from the flames flickered on his face and hair.
‘Where are you staying?’
‘At the Métropole, on the Boulevard Henri Rivière.’
At that moment Sylvie reappeared and drew him away. After he’d gone Nicole felt his absence and, despite all the people milling around, the garden seemed empty. She remembered one of their cook Lisa’s favourite sayings: Có công mài sắt có ngày nên kim – if you polish a piece of iron long enough you can make a needle. Though Lisa was French she spoke enough Vietnamese to get by in the markets, and took pride in quoting Vietnamese sayings. Perhaps it was time to apply a little polish to herself, Nicole thought as the live music started up. Time, too, for dancing the night away.
2
The next morning Nicole made her way down to the labyrinth of rooms on the lower ground floor. At the bottom of the narrow stairs, she walked along a long corridor and pushed open the door to the kitchen. There she glanced around at walls lined with white brick-shaped tiles and at a row of gleaming copper pots hanging from an iron bar in the centre. The new green roll-up blinds gave the kitchen a cool feel, and four big wall arches, smelling of paint, divided the room into sections.
Lisa had already made herself comfortable in her armchair, right beside the conservatory doors where she could watch over her precious vegetable plot. From the moment of Nicole’s birth, Lisa had been the one constant. She looked just the way you’d want a cook to look: plump. Only in her forties, with her flyaway, greying hair tied in a topknot and her hands red from washing dishes, she had both feet up on a footstool. She fumbled in the pocket of her apron for the first cigarette of the day; a woman whose only concerns were rabbits, lizards or birds, and making sure the longan fruit were brought in safely in July, ready for preserving.
‘You okay to get your own coffee?’
Nicole nodded, poured the coffee into a large mug then threw herself into a chair opposite the cook. ‘I need this.’
‘Hangover?’
‘I suppose.’
‘I saw you with an interesting-looking man last night.’
‘Which one?’ Nicole tried to conceal her smile but knew there was nothing she could hide from Lisa.
‘I take it you like him?’
Nicole laughed. ‘It felt extraordinary. I’m probably being silly, but I felt as if I’d just met the person who might change my whole life.’
Lisa smiled. ‘H
e looked very handsome. I’m happy for you, chérie. Did you dance?’
‘Not with him. He didn’t stay long.’
But Nicole couldn’t properly communicate the feeling of being changed, as if all her old feelings of inadequacy were disappearing. The brief meeting with Mark had slid inside her and she couldn’t help but think it was the start of something very different.
‘What does he do?’
‘I didn’t ask.’ She grinned at Lisa and got to her feet. ‘He’s American.’
‘A friend of Sylvie’s?’
There was a noise coming from the housekeeper’s room along the corridor and Nicole pulled a face. ‘Bettine is here then?’
Lisa nodded. Though they had worked together for years, Bettine and Lisa could not have been more different. While Lisa was plump and round, Bettine was stiff and thin as a rake. Lisa’s cosy bedroom and little sitting room of her own next to the kitchen were always a source of strife between the two women; the housekeeper lived out in rooms. The scullery and laundry room were the domain of the housemaid, Pauline, and there was a food preparation room for the part-time kitchen maid, only called in when Lisa needed extra help.
Nicole opened the conservatory doors and, smelling May air thick with the scent of wet earth, she listened to the creaking cyclo pousse as it drew up at the back of the house. She wrapped her silk dressing gown across her body, glanced at a few early yellow persimmon lying on the grass – where Sylvie maintained the bodies had been buried – and spotted Yvette, the baker’s daughter, climbing out of the rickshaw, the ribbons of her dark plaits flying in the breeze.
The smell of freshly baked brioche drifted across.
Nicole beckoned the child over and, once inside the kitchen, drew up two chairs at the scrubbed pine table. Lisa had already laid out plates for Nicole’s two pains au chocolat and Yvette’s slice of soft white bread, spread with butter and honey.
Although she was only ten, Yvette usually delivered their Saturday patisserie treats: crème anglaise tarts, fresh loaves to eat with jam and preserves, the breakfast brioche, croissants and pains au chocolat. Her Vietnamese mother had died at the hands of the Japanese during the war, but Yves was a doting parent, who tried to be both mother and father to his little girl, and Nicole was very fond of her.