The Missing Sister

by Dinah Jefferies

  Simone sat with me afterwards.

  The fire was my undoing. The police believed I’d started it deliberately to conceal my poor baby’s dead body. They’d previously searched the summer house, of course, but hadn’t taken up the floorboards. Once fire had destroyed everything, nothing could be found.

  They questioned me all over again.

  ‘Did you see anything unusual on the day you say you found the pram empty?’ the sharp-eyed, bald policeman asked.

  I shook my head. ‘I’ve already told you I did not.’ I looked into his eyes in the hope of finding some compassion there, but there was none, merely a blank expression he used to disguise what he really thought of me.

  My skin prickled. It wasn’t only the heat of the day. Although I struggled against it, I jumped up and felt anger exploding inside me. ‘Why aren’t you looking for the person who took my baby? Why won’t you leave me alone?’

  He put out a hand as if to push me back down but when I flinched he stopped short.

  ‘Now, now, Mrs Hatton … Diana, I’ve told you before, such a belligerent attitude will not help your case. Please sit down.’

  ‘Case?’ I whispered. ‘I have a case? Are you charging me?’

  ‘As of now you are simply helping us with our enquiries. Now to go back to the day in question. Did you sense something might be wrong? You were in the summer house that day too, weren’t you, with the pram in full view? Surely you were keeping an eye out for your child? Are you really saying you did not hear or see anything?’

  I shook my head, numb with exhaustion.

  All day the questions went on. Round and round. What time did you come out to the garden? How long had the baby been alone? Who did you see in the garden? Why didn’t you call for help immediately?

  Beware the darkness hidden within the mind. The thought was so loud in my head, for one moment I was certain I had spoken, but the policeman was staring at me with a disingenuous smile, the type that stops short of the eyes.

  ‘Humour me, Mrs Hatton,’ he said, arms folded now, antagonistic, the smile gone. ‘What about cracks in your marriage before this happened?’

  I dared not look him in the eye.

  I had thought I had everything: a beautiful house in Rangoon, a caring husband, my old childhood home in England, and a garden I had laboured over day after day. I knew nothing of cracks within our marriage, except for the one noticeably large one, but I was not about to admit an indiscretion to the policeman.

  ‘Mrs Hatton?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you love your husband?’

  The silence went on a fraction too long.

  The servants must have told him I’d been acting strangely since Elvira’s birth. It’s hard to remember clearly. All I know is I loved her so much I thought my heart might burst and yet … those bouts of crying I was unable to soothe. They tore me in two. No matter what I did, I could not comfort her, nor could I control myself. I wept continuously and felt so ashamed I would often go to the summer house to hide my face.

  As for what happened to Elvira … I don’t know.

  9.

  Gloria hadn’t mentioned it was to be a moonlight party and Belle was thrown when she noticed the poster on the front gate also stated admission was by formal invitation only. She could hear the muted hum of conversation drifting, she guessed, from the other side of the building. As she pushed open the gate a Chinese woman stepped out from a gloomy office and held out her hand.

  ‘I haven’t got an invitation card,’ Belle said. ‘But I was invited.’

  The woman shook her head. ‘Card only,’ she said in heavily accented English.

  Belle wondered what to do. ‘Mrs de Clemente invited me. Could you maybe go round and look for her?’

  The woman shrugged but didn’t move.

  It had been an exceptionally long day and Belle was tired. She’d woken early and, although she had invited Rebecca to have coffee with her, the girl hadn’t turned up at the café. Later there’d been long rehearsals with the band and the dancers. Most nights the dancers performed their routines with the orchestra but on show nights they worked up a routine to go with the numbers Belle sang. She had to dance with them too and the rehearsal had been tough. They had been professional but distant and she’d experienced a few moments of panic when she’d thought they might deliberately wrong-foot her, but in the end the show had gone well and, glad it was over, Belle felt relieved.

  But she’d expended a great deal of nervous energy and, as the Chinese woman had now turned away, she decided to cut her losses, return to her room and go straight to bed. It didn’t matter.

  As she turned to make her way back, wondering if there might be a rickshaw nearby, a tallish man approached. In the blue light of the moon it was hard to make out his colouring, but she could see he had angular features and a wide smile.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you going in?’

  She explained what had happened.

  ‘No problem. I can take you through as my guest.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  He gave her a lopsided smile. ‘Sure. I’m Oliver, by the way, Oliver Donohue.’ And he held out his hand.

  ‘Well, thank you. I’m –’

  He didn’t let her finish. ‘I know who you are, Miss Hatton. I saw you singing tonight. Scat singing at one point. Mighty impressive.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘So, shall we?’ He flashed his invitation card, then held out his arm as if to shepherd her through.

  ‘You’re American,’ she said, as they walked around the building towards the sound of the party which was growing louder now.

  She didn’t hear his reply because as they turned the corner she surveyed the scene in surprise. It was much prettier and more festive than she’d expected. The pool sparkled with coloured reflections from paper lanterns hanging from trees circling the water. On the terrace oil lamps lit the animated faces of people gathered together in knots, and fairy lights hung across the entrance to the pool house itself. As Belle took in the softly playing music, she noticed a few couples dancing cheek to cheek.

  ‘I hadn’t expected it to look so lovely,’ she said.

  ‘The British never stint.’

  She looked up at him, wondering if there had been a hint of criticism in his voice, but he was smiling broadly. Now the light was better she could see his luminous blue eyes, fringed by impossibly long dark eyelashes. She forced herself not to stare at those eyes. He had a strong, straight nose with tousled, rather unruly light-brown hair and a deep tan. He’s different, she thought, as she noted his barely concealed amusement, as if life provides him with endless entertainment.

  He went to the bar for drinks and while he was gone she glanced around, spotting Gloria and Edward laughing at something on the other side of the pool. When Gloria waved and began to make her way over, Belle, acknowledging she’d hoped to spend a little more time with the American on her own, felt a spark of disappointment.

  ‘You made it. I’m glad,’ Gloria said. ‘How was the show?’

  ‘Good, thanks.’

  Oliver returned with a glass of champagne for Belle and a beer for himself. She hesitated, weighing things up, but in the end held out her hand and took the glass.

  ‘Oh,’ Gloria said, ‘I see you’ve met our resident American journalist.’

  Oliver bowed in mock formality. ‘Foreign correspondent for the Washington Post at your service.’

  ‘And the rest,’ Gloria added with a touch of sarcasm in her voice.

  Oliver shrugged and, ignoring Gloria, addressed Belle. ‘What Mrs de Clemente is referring to are my columns in the Rangoon Gazette.’

  ‘Which are none too complimentary about us, I might add,’ Gloria pointed out.

  ‘Us?’ Belle asked.

  ‘The British, darling. You and me.’ She waved an arm around the gathering. ‘All of us. He believes Burma should be for the Burmans. Anyway, I have people to see.’ She turned to Oliver. ‘Don’t monopo
lize our new angel. She has people to see too.’

  She kissed Belle on the cheek, gave Oliver a cursory nod, then walked away.

  ‘I’m surprised she didn’t drag you off with her,’ he said with a wry look.

  ‘Not your greatest admirer, it seems, but was she right?’

  He gave her a smile. ‘Sure. I don’t hide the fact I’m not a fan of British pride in their Empire, nor do I approve of their blindness to the moral issues inherent in colonialism.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘So, in that case, if you don’t mind me asking, why are you here?’

  ‘Well, there you have it. Conundrum, isn’t it?’

  She narrowed her eyes as she looked up at him, then shook her head. ‘Not an answer.’

  He grinned and as he did so his eyes lit up. ‘Maybe I want to watch as Rome burns.’

  ‘Really?’

  He shrugged. ‘Burma fascinates me. It’s the source of the best rubies in the world, plus endless teak, oil and rice from which, I might add, the British have made colossal fortunes. But times are changing, and I want to be around.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean the days of the British are numbered.’

  ‘Don’t seem to be numbered,’ she said, gazing around at the carefree faces of the crowd.

  ‘Blinkered, the lot of them. But stick around. You’ll see. The university student strike sixteen years ago pointed the way.’

  ‘A strike?’

  ‘The council and administration staff were all British and nominated by the government. The students resented it.’

  She shrugged. ‘Can’t really blame them.’

  He nodded. ‘Exactly. So, despite threats from the government, the strike spread and was only partially settled when changes were made.’

  As he looked at her a long pause ensued, and feeling her colour rising, she touched her cheeks. Such a direct look he had. Perhaps useful in a journalist.

  ‘And since then?’

  ‘The Burmese who work at the Secretariat are paid far less than their British counterparts and that too is a source of discontent.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Can you?’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’d be one of the few. Many Brits still believe the only way to maintain authority is to treat the Burman as an inferior. And some British who have lived here most of their lives don’t even speak a word of Burmese.’

  She shook her head. ‘That beggars belief.’

  ‘Sure does,’ he said. ‘Being accused of being pro-Burman is considered an insult.’

  ‘And you are pro-Burman?’

  ‘I guess. Things are changing but I can’t stomach the way some Brits still treat Burma as if it were a little England.’ He paused as if deciding whether to say more.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, if you really want to know …’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘There’s the brutal repression, the exploitation, the forced labour, the suffering of the dispossessed. It’s wrong. All of it.’ He paused again. ‘But don’t get me started. Tell me, instead, what’s your story?’

  She felt a moment of unease. The man worked for a newspaper, after all, and her father had always mistrusted journalists. ‘Everything’s a story to you?’ she finally said.

  He laughed. ‘Sorry, I’ll put it another way. Why not tell me about yourself?’

  She silenced the doubt and as they talked a little about their backgrounds she felt more and more drawn to him. He was from New York but hadn’t wanted to go into the family import–export business and had instead made a point of seeing the world and writing about it, eventually picking up freelance work for various papers. He’d been lucky, he said, a small inheritance had been enough to fund the first two years while he’d made his way.

  She told him about Cheltenham and about her career, then, completely without intending to, found herself talking about her parents and the sister she’d never known. He listened intently, as if there were only the two of them there, and something about that meant she wanted to say even more. His focus seemed to draw the words from her without his even trying, and she felt happy to have found someone she really liked and who seemed to like her. She even told him her parents had once lived in Golden Valley.

  It went quiet between them. He appeared to be thinking and she hoped she hadn’t said too much.

  ‘If you like we can take a wander around the area where they once lived. Maybe see if anyone remembers anything. You’ll like it. Golden Valley is the garden of Rangoon and from parts of it you can even see the Shwedagon Pagoda.’

  She nodded, touched by his kindness. ‘I’d love to. But there’s something else. I haven’t told you everything.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I want to. The thing is, my mother was arrested in connection with my sister’s disappearance. I’ve got the newspaper cutting.’

  He raised his brows. ‘Your parents must have offended someone for it to be reported. The Brits usually close ranks, especially back then. It sounds fishy. You could check it out with the police. They’ll have records and I can put you in touch with one of my contacts.’

  ‘Really?’ She paused. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure how much I want to know, but it would be nice to see where they once lived.’

  ‘I’ll drop you a note at the hotel with my contact’s name. What’s your day off?’

  ‘Wednesday.’

  ‘So how about then for a trip to Golden Valley?’

  She smiled up at him but saw his eyes were trained on something going on behind her.

  ‘Early?’ she said.

  ‘Sure. Look, Gloria’s brother is on his way over. He and I … well, let’s say there’s no love lost.’ He touched her hand for a second and his eyes sparkled. ‘See you Wednesday morning. Eight okay? Before the heat builds up.’

  She nodded, pleased with herself.

  ‘And, by the way, I don’t know if anyone has warned you but keep clear of the dogs. Some are rabid. And take care near the bars lining the docks. Most are fronts for opium dens and brothels.’

  ‘Good Lord, nobody said.’

  ‘They should have. The town was originally built on a swamp, so cholera epidemics have been annual events. Not my thing to advise you to stick to the British areas and the centre of town, but on your own you should.’

  As Oliver left, Edward approached her, looking smart in a relaxed kind of a way. He gave her his usual charming greeting, but she had caught the hint of an odd expression she felt he was now trying to conceal. Had it been something more than simple dislike of Oliver?

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to let you know that the best place to meet anyone who might have been around in your parents’ day is likely to be the Pegu club. It’s the stronghold of the senior civil service. Shall we say next Sunday lunchtime?’

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  ‘Not at all. Now I know my sister would like a word. She wants to take you to Gossip Point.’

  Belle laughed. ‘Sounds hideous.’

  ‘Delightful spot actually, overlooks the Royal Lakes. Where the women meet.’ He squeezed her arm and spoke warmly, his eyes fixed on hers. ‘Look, I know it must be tricky to come to terms with, but you don’t want to live in the past.’

  She frowned. ‘I don’t … really. I was simply curious, nothing more.’

  ‘Well, that’s good.’

  She glanced at her feet and didn’t add anything.

  ‘Good,’ he repeated and patted her on the shoulder. ‘Well, have a wonderful week. Enjoy yourself.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And I’ll call for you next Sunday at twelve. And, don’t forget, if you need anything at all you can always give me a call. The hotel will give you my number.’

  She thanked him but what had really caught her imagination was the American journalist and his offer to accompany her to Golden Valley.

  10.

  Diana, Cheltenham, 192
1

  I loved our private back garden in Golden Valley. The roses in June and July, the huge poinsettia bushes with the bright-red flowers, the anthuriums, the purple asters surrounded by big drifts of pale-blue butterflies, and the lovely orchid tree with its heart-shaped leaves and flowers of white and pink. The birds too, especially the luminous green ones and the hawks swooping across the clear blue sky high above the ancient padauk tree which had been there long before the house was built.

  When we moved in I’d asked the Burmese gardener what the padauk was called in English. He said it had no English name but told me it was a member of the pea family and it produced a hardwood a bit like rosewood. He offered to chop it down, but I told him no. I’m so glad I did because in April, when the weather was so hot and dusty I thought I’d never survive, it burst into blossom and turned gold overnight. And, as the delicate fragrance of the padauk hung in the evening air, Simone and I would sit out, watching for the snakes living in the trees and batting our hands at the flying insects. We’d drink our gin and tonics and laugh about our husbands’ quirks and sometimes end up quite drunk. We rose at five in the morning back then to escape the heat and I slept most of the day.

  The gardener also told me it was Thingyan or water festival time, and Burma’s new year, when everybody who dares go out is met with a bucket of water thrown over the head. Not a bad thing, I thought, given the weather, although Douglas cautioned against it and it was never wise to disagree.

  Our house was beautiful. Painted white, the airy bedrooms caught the breeze from the veranda circling the house, and I often spent the afternoons resting on a chaise longue in the upstairs day room where a through draught gave some relief from the heat. All the hardwood floors were dark and polished to such a sheen I swear you could see your face in them. The wooden shutters, originally bright green, quickly faded to a subtler paler green which I preferred. Tall palms shaded the front of the house and tropical bushes and plants lined a curving pond at the side.