by Janet Tanner
Brit … Brit … my love … my life …
He had not moved away. He still stood, knee-deep in the water, watching them. But he was only a shadow now, a dark, indistinct blur against the backdrop of beach and cliffs and trees. Further out and further they went, until they reached the yacht, and still he stood there. Eager hands helped them aboard, but her eyes were
riveted on the shore, looking for the very last sight of him.
She was unaware of the drone of the bomber until it was very
close. Her whole being was concentrated on the parting from Brit.
But suddenly it seemed that the air was shaking and she looked
up to see the aircraft just above the cliff line.
Apathy died, tingling terror rushed in to fill the vacuum.
‘Oh, my God!’
Frozen, she watched. The bomber seemed to hang there like an
obscene vulture for timeless seconds, then there was a sharp,
sickening whine and she saw several objects falling through the
air.
And then, before her eyes, the beach erupted.
Smoke, flame, debris, flying sand, cascading water.
And as it settled, the eerie calm was broken only by the now
distant drone as the enemy plane pulled back for home base.
For endless moments shock kept her rigid, then she screamed.
‘Oh my God – Brit!’
One of the crew was alongside her and she turned in panic,
grabbing his sleeve.
‘Go back! We must go back!’
‘We can’t go back.’
‘We must! Don’t you understand? Brit’s there …’
Firm hands were holding her, voices shaken but soothing.
‘We can’t go back. It wouldn’t do any good.’
‘What do you mean, it wouldn’t do any good?’
But even as she asked, she knew. Deep down, beneath that part
of her conscious mind which refused to accept, she knew that no
one on the beach could have escaped the bomb. No one could
have been there and lived.
Her hands gripped the rail, her body shaken with soundless sobs.
The grief was too enormous to contemplate; even the first long
shadow it cast was too much to bear.
Brit must be dead – that was what they were telling her.
‘No!’ she sobbed, fighting against the inescapable reality. ‘It’s not
true! He’s not dead! I won’t believe it!’
But from those around her there was no reply, no words of false hope.
She buried her face in her hands, rocking, sobbing only ‘No – no!’ until the word seemed a part of her, something that would go on forever in time with her breathing.
The yacht sailed relentlessly on, increasing the distance across the dark water, but she was unaware of it. Her world had ceased to exist and she was just a shell of pain. How long she stood there she never knew, but suddenly she was aware of a tugging at her skirt and looked down to see Alex’s anxious upturned face.
‘Mummy, don’t! Don’t cry!’
‘Oh, Alex!’ She choked on her tears suddenly and his vulnerability pierced her grief.
He was small, he was frightened, he depended on her. Somehow she had to find the strength to support him – and the baby too. It was what Brit had wanted, and he had believed that she could do it.
But Brit – when you were there, it was different! There was a purpose – a reason to be brave.
The emptiness was unbelievable. The sea. The sky. Her heart. Barren and empty: a. void, a vacuum, a nothing. Not only never to see him again, but not even to have the smallest hope to ding to.
There was nothing left … nothing. Only a dark cloud thinning and dispersing over the mass of land called Hong Kong.
PART THREE
1983
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sun, breaking through the threatening storm clouds, threw shadows from the beech trees on to the golden gravel drive and warmed the cream stone wall of the square Georgian house that was Durscombe Park. It lit the two shallow steps that ran the breadth of the centre section of frontage and the Ionic columns, squat yet elegant, that supported the curved balcony above, but it did not quite reach the white-painted front door – open now to give a glimpse of a large, light hall and a graciously curving staircase.
A woman stood in the doorway, a slender woman with softly curling silver hair, wearing a dress of flowered silk in palest pinks and mauves. Though she was clearly of something more than middle years, she had retained something of the outstanding good looks of her youth – her delicate bone structure was perfect, her skin still good and her amber eyes sparkled behind a fringe of thick lashes. Those eyes were wide now and one slim hand clutched at the doorpost as if for support.
The air was heavy with the scent of roses. Stuart Brittain breathed it in and it seemed to heighten the aura of dreamlike unreality that surrounded him. All day he had been looking forward to this moment, when he would at last come face to face with Elise Sanderson. All day, when he should have been concentrating on ironing out the details of the proposed deal between Cormorant and Roydell, he had found his mind wandering as he wondered what she would be like and what kind of reception she would give him when he called at Durscombe Park.
It was unusual for him allow himself to be distracted in this way. A good businessman for all his slight cynicism, he was usually able to compartmentalise his life so that private affairs in no way impinged on board-room or office. This was one of the things which had prevented him from forming a serious attachment with any of the numerous young women who had pursued him – none of them had ever impressed him sufficiently to take his mind off his work for even half an hour. This was not something he wanted – the very thought of it was enough to make him shy away – yet perversely he felt that if he was to make any willing commitment there should be times when he could be distracted, if only momentarily. But it had taken a woman in her middle sixties to do it.
Of course, she was not just any woman. For as long as he could remember she had been the heroine of a thousand daydreams. From the day when, as a child eight years old, he had found the box containing the medals, the pilot’s wings and the other personal possessions of the great-uncle he had never known, the beautiful and mysterious Elise had fascinated him. Hers had been the photograph contained in a heavy gold locket, marked only with a name – Elise – and a date – 1936 – a locket which seemed incongruously out of place amongst the other very masculine items, yet imbued them with a hint of romance. Poring over it in that unused attic room in his home in Shek-o on Hong Kong Island, he had thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Now, standing on the steps of a Gloucestershire manor house and looking for the first time at the older, flesh-and-blood version of the face that had entranced him, he found himself reliving the strange dark excitement which had possessed him then.
When he had first discovered the chest, he had gone running eagerly to his mother – ‘Look, look – where did this come from? What’s this medal? And this photograph – who is it?’ But his mother, who had been only a baby in 1941 and whose small quota of natural curiosity had in any case been sapped by the heat of the East, had been unable to tell him. His Aunt Zoe, his dead father’s sister, had not proved much more informative when he buttonholed her on one of her rare visits to Hong Kong from her home in Singapore, though she did tell him she thought he had unearthed the belongings of a brother of Stuart’s grandfather, killed during the invasion of Hong Kong, before she had been born.
Naturally enough, Stuart’s interest had only deepened. Since his father’s death in a car accident a year earlier, he had become a solitary child and the romance of the mysterious box of forgotten treasures had brought colour back into his life. He would, he decided, ask his grandfather all about it at the first opportunity.
This opportunity had been a frustratingly long while in coming. Charles
Brittain, now tai-pan of the giant Cormorant group, was a workaholic who ate, breathed and slept the company. For the child Stuart, finding him alone and in a mood to talk was a treat to be sought after and savoured. When it came, however, it was always worth the waiting. To be allowed to perch on Grandfather’s knee, when he was small enough, or to sit on a leather pouffe close beside him as he grew bigger, smelling his brandy and cigars, listening to him talk about the old days and the beginnings of Cormorant, was like going on a very exciting adventure. The company had been founded by colourful ancestors who had sailed with the British East India Company, built on the trading of illegal opium and nurtured with flair, wisdom and a rod-of-iron control. All kinds of crises had been weathered including, according to Grandfather, a brush with the Tongs – the Chinese secret societies – and Stuart had fed on the stories for as long as he could remember.
Now, suddenly, it all seemed far less exciting than his own find in the attic room. But when at last the chance came to ask Grandfather, the tai-pan – though he clearly knew all the answers – was curiously reluctant to provide them.
Stuart could still remember the way his face had closed up when confronted by one particular medal, the leathery lines setting hard, thick lips clamping around his cigar.
‘Where did you find this, heh?’
‘In the attic, Sir.’
‘The attic? And what have you been doing poking around up there?’
‘Just playing. Sir.’
‘Hmm. Well, do you know what this is?’ He lifted the medal with blunt fingers and let it lie in the palm of his hand. ‘ It’s an Air Force Cross. Probably the only one you are ever likely to see. My brother won it working behind enemy lines in the war.’
Stuart’s eyes had widened. ‘Enemy lines?’
‘He went into China – spying, I suppose. Just the sort of damn fool thing he would do. Then, after all that, he got himself killed by a stray bomb on the beach at Repulse Bay – well, not killed outright but fatally wounded and he died before we could get him home. Gerald, his name was. Younger than me by six years, buried in the War Cemetery out at Chai Wan.’
‘The War Cemetery?’ Even at eight, Stuart had been surprised by that. All the Brittains were buried together in a family plot in the European Cemetery. He wondered if the graves in the War Cemetery were set out as the Chinese ones were: tier upon tier, upright, backed against the hillsides and looking over water. It did not strike him as odd, for he had been born and raised in Hong Kong, he merely wondered.
‘He is buried in the War Cemetery because my father thought that was where he would prefer to be,’ Charles said heavily. ‘His heart was always with the Royal Air Force, never with the family firm.’ His lips had twisted with a moment’s rare humour. ‘Not to be dedicated to Cormorant is a heinous crime, Stuart – never forget that.’
‘I won’t, Sir.’ Stuart had only been anxious to draw the conversation back to the contents of the box. ‘If he was killed, when did they give him the medal?’
‘It was awarded posthumously. That means that it was sent to his family after he died.’
‘His family? That’s us.’
‘I suppose so, yes.’
‘So why is it in the attic? Why isn’t it in the drawing room for everyone to see?’
Charles had shrugged. ‘ It would probably get stolen.’
But Stuart had been sure that was not the whole of the story.
He had delved into the box again, bringing out the locket – heavy gold, on a thick chain.
‘Whose was this?’
At once he had sensed Charles’s withdrawal.
‘I don’t know.’
‘There’s a photograph inside,’ he had persisted. ‘Look!’ But Charles had not looked. He had stood up, smoothing down his cream linen jacket and brushing his grey moustache with a gesture which was oddly dismissive.
‘It’s your bedtime, my boy. Now put these things away where you found them, eh?’
‘But Sir …’
‘No arguments, now.’
And Stuart had known better than to argue.
It had been the same whenever he had tried to discover the identity of the woman in the locket. His grandfather simply said he did not know; but Stuart, young as he was, was conscious of a door shutting. It was not just that his grandfather did not know – he did not want to know. This, Stuart found puzzling. He would have given anything to learn the identity of the beautiful and mysterious woman.
Years passed and he grew older, but the box continued to hold him in thrall. Just by looking at the things he could still recapture the magic they had woven for a young boy, still feel the thrill of pride when he thought of the heroism of a great-uncle he had never known. But the identity of the woman had remained a mystery …
Until a week ago, that is, when he had opened a newspaper lying on the writing desk in the office of a London bank and seen the face from the photograph looking up at him.
He had been glancing idly through the paper – passing five minutes while he waited for the man he was meeting to complete a telephone call. But at the sight of that face he had frozen, all thoughts of business banished from his mind. It was her! That clear-cut bone structure – that smile – it was her!
The caption beneath read: ‘Katrina Fletcher, daughter of David Fletcher and grand-daughter of Gordon Sanderson, founder of Sanderson International, pictured at Annabel’s last night with Gunther Dietrich, head of the German electronics firm.’ These words poured the cold water of common sense on to his first wild notions. Of course it couldn’t possibly be the same woman – the one pictured in his locket must be middle-aged at least by now, probably elderly. But the similarity was so striking that he knew he could not leave the avenue unexplored. All these years he had been wondering who his mystery woman could be; now, here was a girl who looked so like her that it was impossible to believe they were not related.
At the first opportunity Stuart began doing a little detective work, and what he discovered made him certain that he was on the right track. Sanderson International had originated in Hong Kong, though after the war – which had more or less wiped it out – the founder, Gordon Sanderson, had rebuilt in Europe. Gordon Sanderson, grandfather of Katrina Fletcher, the girl who so resembled his mystery woman! So there was a connection between Katrina and Hong Kong – a strong family tie.
At this point, Stuart had tackled his grandfather again. But as always, Charles had been utterly disinterested: ‘Sandersons? Yes, I believe there were some Sandersons in Hong Kong, but I never knew them. Now – how did the London trip go?’ Not for the first time, Stuart had wondered if Charles knew more than he was prepared to say about the mystery of the locket.
More detective work, more judicious enquiries and Stuart came up with the most conclusive piece of evidence so far. The widow of Gordon Sanderson, and grandmother of Katrina, was called Elise, the name which had been inscribed on the photograph in the locket. It was all he needed.
Perhaps, he thought, Elise had worked for Sandersons when they had been in Hong Kong and had somehow met his great-uncle. Then later, after he had been killed, she had married Gordon Sanderson.
But whatever the details of the history, he was certain he had traced the original owner of the locket.
Exactly when he reached the decision to seek her out and return it to her personally, Stuart was never quite certain. Perhaps the thought had been there, simmering away at the back of his mind, during all his investigations; perhaps it was the sudden idea it appeared to be, thrown up when the meeting with Roydell to arrange the contract for the supply of components was fixed. Elise Sanderson now lived in Gloucestershire; Roydell were based in Bristol, less than an hour down the motorway from Durscombe Park. It would be simplicity itself to deliver the locket. And, a small voice added, admit that there is a certain amount of curiosity involved too. For most of your life you have wondered about her – now is your opportunity to meet her face to face.
But alongside the anticipation ha
d been a certain amount of apprehension. It was possible that she might not want to see him and be reminded of the past – if so, he would make his exit swiftly and tactfully. Even worse was the prospect of finding a middle-aged harridan who would destroy completely and for ever the illusions of his youth!
Now, faced with this slender woman, undeniably older, but still attractive, Stuart was relieved to discover that this, at least, was far from being the case.
‘Mrs Sanderson?’ he said, but it was more a statement than a question.
She nodded, very slightly. The tendons in her wrist stood out as she held grimly on to the door-post and there was an expression he could not fathom in her wide amber eyes.
‘You won’t know me, Mrs Sanderson, but my name is Stuart Brittain. I hope you will forgive me for descending on you like this, but …’
She had not moved, and something in the quality of her stillness made him uneasy suddenly.
‘I hope I’ve got the right person. You used to live in Hong Kong?’
‘Yes.’ She was sharply wary and he knew she was wondering why he had come. Then she took a deep, steadying breath and opened the door wide. ‘Forgive me! You reminded me so much of someone I used to know that it was quite a shock …’
‘I’m so sorry.’ But in fact he was relieved and unconsciously one corner of his mouth lifted. ‘It wouldn’t have been my uncle, I suppose? Gerald Brittain?’
He saw her breath catch again and any doubts that he might have contacted the wrong woman disappeared.
‘Your uncle?’
‘Well, great-uncle, actually. He and my grandfather were brothers.’
‘I see. You are very much like him.’
‘Yes.’ He had thought so himself when he had seen family photographs, though no one had ever mentioned the likeness. More evidence that Gerald Brittain had been the black sheep of the family – the unwillingness to admit that Stuart might bear any resemblance to him!
‘I expect you are wondering why I am here,’ he said. The fact is that I was in Bristol on business and thought I would take the opportunity to make your acquaintance. You see, I have something which I think may belong to you.’