Connie rapped a knuckle on the table. ‘I am not here to discuss my son.’
He studied her for a long moment until she became impatient with him.
‘So?’ she said sharply. ‘Will you accept my proposition?’
‘Where are you intending to sail to?’
‘Singapore.’
He nodded slowly. ‘There may be problems.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a war on.’
She had expected so much more of Fitzpayne. With an effort, she kept her expression polite. ‘Goodbye, Mr Fitzpayne. Thank you for your time.’ She started to rise from her chair.
‘Whoa, now,’ he said as smoothly as if she were a skittish foal, and he pressed her down into her seat. ‘No need to be in such an almighty rush.’
‘You are drunk. No use to me. This has been a wasted journey.’
He laughed under his breath, picked up her drink and held it out to her. She shook her head. ‘I haven’t said,’ he continued, ‘that I won’t skipper your precious yacht for you. Here, drink my drink, and smoke one of my cigarettes,’ he threw a pack of Players on the table, ‘while I consider your proposition.’
His eyes were not grey today, but a misty purplish colour that reminded her of a winter morning at home in England, the air so chill it could make your bones ache. She looked at the glass of whisky still in his outstretched hand. She hated whisky. Nevertheless, in one swift movement she took the drink, swallowed it down in a single shot and felt it take her insides apart. With steady hands she extracted a cigarette and lit it with one of his matches. He smiled and refilled his own glass, but passed no comment.
For five minutes they sat there in silence. She smoked her cigarette, and when any of the other drinkers gawped at her too long, she scowled at them. But she grew mildly alarmed whenever she moved her head too fast because the edges of the table blurred, as though they too had been burned in the fires that had raged through Palur. It was the damn whisky. She avoided looking at Fitzpayne, but as each minute limped past she could taste the foolishness and feel the heat of anger crawling up from the soles of her feet. There were others she could ask; she didn’t need this man, she told herself. For heaven’s sake, people would jump at the chance to escape from Palur on The White Pearl. So why was she putting herself through this?
But the unaccustomed alcohol had dulled the ache that was as much a part of her daily life as eating and smiling and cleaning her teeth. The usual throb of it was hiding under the whisky. Instead, a whole new section of her brain had yawned open, startling her. She blinked at its dazzling clarity, like crystal glass. Bright as a newly polished room. And it was this core section of her brain that brought the truth leaping to the front of her mind: she trusted this man.
The realisation jolted her, and she ground out her cigarette stub in the tin ashtray. She trusted Fitzpayne. She certainly didn’t always like the man or his strange moods, and there was something odd, something distinctly wrong about the way he seemed to pop up in her life repeatedly. But if she and her family were going to be sailing into danger, she was convinced that this was the man to have on deck beside them.
‘Well?’ she said sharply. ‘Your five minutes are up, Mr Fitzpayne.’
He put down his drink and his full lips spread into a slow smile. ‘I just wondered how long you’d last.’
‘Does that mean you’ll sail the boat?’
‘Of course. You and I both knew the moment you put your proposition, Mrs Hadley, that the answer was yes.’
‘Damn you,’ Connie said and poured herself another shot of whisky.
18
A dam had burst somewhere inside Connie’s head. Life came flooding back. She hadn’t even known she was dead before, dead and buried deep in the red soil of the Hadley Estate. She stood now at the rail in the bow of The White Pearl, watching sunlight dart and skim off the water like drunken fireflies, and breathed in great lungfuls of life. Not the usual niggardly sips that left her wanting more, but an uncontrolled rush of it that swept her head free of debris and loosened a tight knot at the base of her skull.
She had brought her son this far, away from the reminders of the bombs. The next step was to open up a future for him that would widen his horizons beyond the mind-numbing rows of rubber trees, Hevea brasiliensis. That day when the bombs came to Palur, Teddy saw far more than a child’s eyes should ever see, but despite that, Nigel had made his own position abundantly clear before he would set one foot on deck.
‘This is short-term, old thing. We’re not running away, we’re just keeping our son safe until the bombing ceases and the enemy is defeated.’
Not running away. Sometimes in the night Connie lay awake wondering who exactly the enemy was. It was the sinking of the great warships, the Prince of Wales and the Repulse, by Japanese torpedoes, followed by the abandonment of Penang by the British, that had finally tipped the balance. It galvanised Nigel into action. She had manoeuvred him into leaving, but even now she clutched at the yacht’s rail in case he tried to snatch it from her at the last moment. The sails swelled in the wind like elegant wings as The White Pearl flew west towards the sea, carving a crisp channel through the muddy waters of the river. The jib and bowsprit pointed the way, as if they knew exactly where it was heading and how many hopes were carried in the fragile curve of the hull.
Connie remained motionless at the rail, one of Johnnie’s cigarettes between her fingers. She was wearing a straw hat that fastened under her chin to prevent it flying off in the wind, and she was grateful for its generous brim. Not just against the harsh sun, but against Nigel’s watchful eyes. He was seated on one of the benches on deck, his injured leg propped up, one mistrustful eye on Fitzpayne at the helm, but all the time she felt him watching her. As though he didn’t trust what his wife would do next.
At her side, a small shoulder nudged against her ribs.
‘Teddy,’ she smiled down at her son and draped an arm around him. ‘Look, there’s a hawk fishing over there.’ Low over the water drifted a bird, its grey wings outstretched, as lazy in its movements as an old man.
Teddy’s eyes followed the hawk, and for a moment they gleamed bright as two new copper coins and Connie’s heart lifted. The day they were caught in the bombing of Palur, her son’s eyes had turned the colour of mud and not even the blunt-nosed terrapin she brought home for him had rinsed away their wretchedness. But now The White Pearl was working her magic.
He leaned his head against her as he continued to watch the bird’s flight. ‘Mummy, why didn’t Jack come?’
‘Because his parents decided to stay a bit longer.’
Elspeth Saunders and her children had taken refuge in the police station during the bombing and escaped unscathed, but still – foolishly, to Connie’s mind – had no intention of leaving. Teddy gave a small sad sigh.
‘But they will die,’ he said.
‘No, of course they won’t, darling. Don’t worry, they’ll leave when they think it’s right.
‘But now is right.’ He looked up at her, searching her face. ‘That’s what you said.’
‘It’s true. Now is right for us. If we waited any longer The White Pearl might be damaged in one of the air raids.’
He nodded solemnly.
How can a child begin to understand what even adults like herself were bemused by? How had this war come about and suddenly snatched away their world? Teddy loved Malaya. He’d lived his whole young life here, it was his home, just as Nigel said. They were both determined to return to Hadley House, father and son, to continue growing rubber trees in endless straight lines for generations to come.
‘And Chala,’ Teddy muttered. ‘She didn’t come either.’
‘Oh, Teddy, don’t blame her. She loves you dearly, but it was too big a step for her to leave Palur. Don’t forget that many Malayans never travel beyond their town or their kampong all their lives.’
He nodded again, like a wise old sage. She bent do
wn and tickled him until he giggled like the child he was, and somewhere below deck Pippin barked at the sound of it.
‘Only four days to Christmas,’ she reminded him.
‘Will Father Christmas come to our boat? There’s no chimney.’
‘Of course he will. Don’t frown like that. He has a special sleigh fitted with floats for children who live on boats.’
‘And reindeer are good swimmers.’
‘But we’ll be in Singapore by then, anyway. It should only take us three or four days, depending on the winds.’
‘Where will we live in Singapore?’
‘I’ve arranged rooms at an hotel for us.’ She changed the subject. ‘Would you like me to ask Daddy if you can borrow his binoculars to watch the riverbanks?’
‘Yes! Yes, please.’
As she walked over to where Nigel was sitting, her son started to sing Row, row, row the boat, gently down the stream behind her. She smiled to herself.
Nigel was pretending to read a book, Brave New World by Aldous Huxley, and for a moment said nothing when she leaned against the rail beside him, her face offered to the breeze. Under Fitzpayne’s instructions, Henry Court was making a decent job of learning to hoist sail, hauling the halyard while Razak made the line fast around a belaying pin – sweating and tailing as Fitzpayne termed it. But Connie was amused by the way Henry made great show of his newly acquired abilities, while Johnnie Blake, using his one good arm, went about his tasks quietly and with far greater skill.
Connie loved the movement of the waves, and the tremor of excitement that rose up from the soles of her feet as she let herself sway with the roll of the deck. Her exhilaration at being on the move – not static any more, not chained up in a cage – with the wind tugging at her hair and the air no longer stuck to her skin with sweat, made her more generous to her husband’s ill humour. His frustration at being on The White Pearl but unable to sail her was making him sullen.
He lifted his head from his book and looked at her from under the canvas peak of his hat. ‘Boy all right?’ he asked.
‘Improving, yes.’
‘Good.’ He scowled up at the empty sky, wary of what may come out of it.
‘May he borrow your binoculars? He’ll take good care of them.’
Nigel was a man who hated to lend his personal possessions, even to his son, but one glance at Teddy’s hopeful expression as he watched from the bow and he relented.
‘They’re in my locker in our cabin.’
‘Thank you, Nigel,’ Connie said happily. ‘Maybe we should buy him a pair of his own for Christmas when we reach Singapore.’
‘Maybe.’ He turned his attention back to his book.
‘It’s hot down here,’ Connie commented.
She had ducked through the hatchway and climbed down the companionway stairs which led into the saloon. Harriet Court was sitting at the central table playing cards. She had changed, her boisterous laugh had vanished and her mood, though not exactly unfriendly, was definitely private. Connie had the feeling she was regretting her decision to come on the boat and suspected she might be hiding a bout of seasickness, but no amount of urging could shift her from the table to venture up on deck. She just sat in the saloon playing patience, doling out the cards hour after hour, and eating her way relentlessly through the small supply of biscuits.
‘How can you eat so much and stay so thin?’ Connie laughed.
Connie sat down on the padded bench opposite, beside the through-deck mast at the front of the saloon. She liked this spot. It felt to her as if it was where the boat’s heart was beating, in the glow of the richly varnished timber walls and the gleam of the brass fittings. The seats were covered in a dark red material that the sunlight from the coach roof picked out and turned to the colour of blood. She nudged the pack of Bourbon biscuits further from her friend’s reach.
Harriet dealt a card and snorted with irritation. ‘To hell with it. Nothing is going right.’
‘Tell me what you’re worried about.’
Harriet looked up from the ace of spades, pushing her fringe off her face, her brown eyes suddenly amused. ‘It would be quicker to tell you what I don’t worry about.’
At least Harriet was engaging in conversation. ‘All right, so what it is you don’t worry about?’
Her friend propped her small chin on her hand and considered her answer for a full minute before she said, ‘I don’t worry about my marriage.’
Such easy words. They made Connie want to lay her head on the table and weep with envy.
‘Lucky you,’ she smiled.
Henry Court could be loud and pompous at times – in fact he often reminded Connie of a cockatoo, the way he liked to stick out his chest and ruffle his hair into a crest – but his heart was in the right place: deep in Harriet’s pocket.
‘Come up on deck,’ Connie invited.
‘No, thanks.’ She shuffled the pack. ‘Tell me more about your Mr Fitzpayne.’
‘He’s not my anything. We’ve hired him for the boat, that’s all. I know nothing of his background.’
‘Maybe you should find out. He doesn’t look much like hired help to me.’
‘No,’ Connie said thoughtfully. ‘He doesn’t.’
‘So why is he doing this?’
Because I asked him.
‘Who knows?’ she said lightly. ‘I think he just likes boats.’
She stood up, tucked the biscuits back in the tin and left Harriet to her cards, while she went in search of the binoculars.
Their cabin was small but gleamed with the same shiny mahogany as the saloon. For a moment Connie placed her palm on one wall and felt it vibrate with life. She kept her hand there to stave off the sudden shocking mental image of Sho lying in the sun with a pillowcase over his head.
She fought down the familiar nausea, and hurried to the small locker on Nigel’s side of the bed. She knelt, and found the binoculars in their case easily enough but when she shut the locker she remained where she was, on her knees. She let her forehead drop onto the bed she shared with Nigel, as though the thoughts inside her head were too heavy for it.
Time passed. She had no idea how long, but she continued to kneel there in silence.
Maya wanted to die.
Had a knife been within reach, she would happily have slit her own throat. She was lying on her front in a stinking black hole, and inside her head her spirit was weeping and begging to leave. Beside her in the dark lay Razak. His arm was around her shoulders and the side of his head was pressed tight against her, anchoring her to him, refusing to let her tiptoe out of this life and into the next. Oh my twin brother, that is unfair. Let me die. But he possessed half her soul, and he was refusing to let it go. She made no sound, so that even her breath left no trace in this world, but she was shivering violently, worse than when she had the fever.
She knew what this was. It was a punishment. All the time Razak had been right and she had been wrong. Piss on her spirit. Those were the words she had uttered about her mother, as carelessly as she would throw out the night slops on a rainy morning. Piss on her spirit. Aiyee! Such words of shame. She had shown no respect to the dead, and now her mother was taking revenge.
Mama, forgive me.
Claws seemed to rake her gut, and she had to squeeze her eyes shut to keep in the tears. Her mother’s spirit was disembowelling her, making her suffer torment. She smelled the filth of her own vomit, and begged again for forgiveness.
Never would she have thought her mother’s spirit was so powerful, that one so useless in life could inflict so much pain in death. Terror nudged against her like a stray dog, but she couldn’t kick it away. I will avenge you, Mama. I swear on my life. Not for money, but for you, Mama. I was wrong to laugh at your curse.
The moment the words formed in her head, daylight swept into the stifling hole like the breath of an angel. A voice said, ‘Good God, what have we here?’
It was the white lady. She dragged them across a room and up some steps, a smil
e as big as a slice of melon on her face. Why wasn’t she raging at them? Why did she laugh? The brightness of the day jumped on Maya’s eyes, forcing her to close them after all that darkness. But in the split second that her eyes were open, she saw enough. Terror took a bite out of her throat.
‘Razak,’ she whispered, and sought her brother’s hand.
Water swirled all around them. They were bobbing up and down on the wide river, the land on each side just a thin green strip in the distance. That’s why the lady laughed. She was marching them to the edge of the boat, she was going to throw them head-first into the brown waves.
‘No! Tidak!’ Maya whimpered. Not to the lady, not to the greedy spirit of the river. But to her mother. ‘I’m sorry.’
Immediately the white lady stopped pulling them across the deck, and the man from The Purple Pussy, the one who was mem’s husband, was sitting in front of them.
Mama’s spirit is powerful beyond imagining.
‘Look who I found stowed away in the aft locker,’ the white lady announced.
Faces came and peered at them, so many faces. Maya wanted somewhere to run but there were no backalleys on a boat, so she stood staring down at her feet, feeling the rolling movement beneath them as though she were riding on the back of a whale.
‘Maya ill,’ Razak said urgently. ‘Need help.’
‘Oh, Maya.’ It was the white lady, her voice soft. ‘Here, drink this, you’ll feel better.’ She thrust a flask into Maya’s hand.
Water. It touched her lips and Maya could not stop herself; she gulped it down. Her insides begged to drown in the stream of water, but abruptly she stopped drinking and looked at the smiling lady with horror as she felt her stomach heave. She rushed past the husband to the rail of the boat and vomited up the water into the river. Poison? She clutched her stomach. Behind her, someone laughed and she looked round into the face of Iron-eyes, the man who had come to find them in the jungle. He steered a huge upright wheel with one hand, his large mouth open and making a big laughing noise at her.
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