Among the other trees we had one bodhi tree, an acacia and a shady tamarind where the ayah would park my darling’s pram.
I will never forget the day they dug my precious garden up and dragged the pond, killing the fish and destroying the planting, and what did the police find for their trouble, digging for all they were worth in that terrible burning heat?
11.
Early on Monday morning, and against her better judgement, Belle set off for the police station. She thought about her conversation with Oliver Donohue and, remembering those piercing blue eyes, realized she was looking forward to seeing him again on Wednesday. Despite his anti-colonial stance there had been something generous about him she felt she could trust. He’d been true to his word too, leaving a note for her at reception with the name of his contact: Norman Chubb. She’d already found out most of the lower ranks in the police force were occupied by Sikhs but the British filled the managerial posts and this man was a detective, so that had to be good.
She entered the imposing building and scrutinized the hallway. Four doors stood closed and forbidding. She tapped on the largest, hoping this heavy sombre-brown affair was the correct one. Silence. She waited then tapped again but was dismayed when an angry voice yelled at her to bugger off. Her breathing sped up and her heart began to thump but, not to be deterred, she tried again, and this time opened the door to find a small office where a large man with thinning bright-red hair sat slumped at an enormous desk piled high with papers in an appalling mess.
‘For Christ sake,’ he said, without looking up. ‘What the hell is it this time? Can’t you see I’m trying to catch forty winks?’
She coughed. ‘Excuse me.’
His head shot up and, now she could see his face, she reckoned he had to be in his mid-fifties.
‘Who the devil are you?’ he demanded.
‘I’m Annabelle Hatton. I’m looking for Mr Norman Chubb.’
‘Are you indeed. And may I ask the nature of your relationship with Detective Chubb?’
‘No relationship. I was given his name by an acquaintance.’
‘And who would that be?’
‘Oliver Donohue.’
‘Ah, the American journalist.’
‘You know him?’
‘What do you think?’ He paused then added, ‘We all know Oliver Donohue.’
‘Is Detective Chubb here?’
‘No.’
Belle hesitated, feeling hot and incredibly sticky, unsure whether to leave now and come back when Chubb was around, but in the end decided to speak to this man instead. ‘Would it be all right if I sat down?’ she asked politely and gave the man what she hoped was a winning smile.
His response was to jerk a finger at a chair opposite his desk, so she seated herself, smoothing her damp dress down nervously and feeling the way she had at school when hauled up in front of Mrs Richards.
‘Your business?’
She gawped at his bright-red cheeks and bristly moustache. Such an overweight man, she thought, with a piggy look about the eyes, nestled as they were between folds of flesh. She circled the question she really wanted to ask by at first enquiring if he was busy.
‘Always, Miss … er?’
‘Hatton.’
‘Ah yes. Well, Miss Hatton, I am always busy.’
‘I’m really sorry to interrupt.’ She paused. ‘Would you mind telling me your name, please?’
He sat up taller in his chair, running a hand over his damp forehead and then his hair. ‘I am Inspector Johnson, Chubb’s superior officer. Whatever you were hoping to say to him, you may say to me.’
‘It’s a little delicate.’
‘Just get on with it, miss. As I said, I am rather busy.’
Belle doubted that, but she smiled apologetically and got to the point, telling him she wanted to know if there were any records about a baby who had vanished from the garden of a house in Golden Valley.
He shifted his bulk and rifled through the papers on the desk at a snail’s pace.
‘I don’t recall,’ he said eventually. ‘Was this recent?’
She shook her head. ‘In 1911.’
His jaw dropped, he turned even redder and then he choked with laughter. ‘Let me get this right?’ he said, once he’d controlled his mirth. ‘You are asking about something that happened twenty-five years ago?’
‘Yes.’
He pursed his lips. ‘And why do you want to know?’
She glanced at the bright sunlight streaming in through the small window, protected by bars, she noticed, then she turned back to the man. Best not be too strident with him, though it was hard to take this foolish-looking man seriously. ‘The parents were my mother and father. The baby would have been my older sister.’
‘Ah, I see, and the purpose of your wanting to see the records? Parents still alive?’
‘No. My father died recently, but I’ve been wondering about what happened here.’
‘Well, Miss … Hatton, I can tell you I was here then and I do remember a little about it. If I recall, the case went cold, although there were theories. And rumours. Oh yes.’
‘And they were?’
‘I believe the most convincing idea was that a witch doctor from one of the head-hunting Wa tribes had paid for the baby to be taken.’
‘But why?’
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Are you sure you want to hear?’
She nodded.
‘It is thought he wanted to use the organs for medicine.’
She gave an involuntary shudder.
‘Another idea was that a criminal gang had stolen the baby to sell to a rich Siamese family. Nothing conclusive. Some rumoured it might have been a revenge killing by someone your father had convicted.’
‘You think the baby died?’
‘Afraid so.’
She chose her words carefully before she spoke. ‘And my mother?’
‘If I remember correctly, your mother was placed under house arrest.’
‘Was she proven innocent?’
He twisted his mouth from side to side. ‘It was somewhat odd actually. I believe she was to be charged, but then suddenly she and your father upped and left Rangoon. Nobody knew what had happened. Well, I say nobody, but somebody must have. All extremely hush hush.’
‘In that case would it be possible to see the records of the investigation?’
He gave her a sorrowful look. ‘Sadly not. A fire a few years later destroyed them. The entire station had to be rebuilt.’
She wondered for a second if it was true, but then dismissed the thought. What reason could he have for lying? She stared at him, hoping he might reveal more. But he gave nothing away, took a deep breath and then puffed out his cheeks, letting the air out in a noisy burst.
‘It has been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hatton,’ he said.
Taking the hint, and not wanting to push it too far, she automatically rose to her feet.
He appeared reassured that she was happy to leave, hauled himself out of his seat and then ushered her towards the door.
Belle hurried back towards the hotel feeling irritated by her meeting with the policeman. He had seemed to be helpful, but she couldn’t rid herself of the thought he hadn’t been telling the whole truth about the events of that day in 1911. She shrugged the feeling off and then, passing a bustling shopping area, she paused. She longed to encounter something not the slightest bit British and although Oliver had warned her to take care, this was in the middle of one of the main streets, and so she felt it ought to be safe.
The frontage looked like a row of shabby food stalls, so at first she hadn’t even been aware it was the entrance to a bazaar, but something about the spicy smells wafting from within tempted her to explore. Divided into multiple dark alleyways inside, the dirt, noise and crowds should have been off-putting. But as she walked ever deeper into the centre, jostled and pushed, but never aggressively, she saw it was more like a huge raftered warehouse than anything else. Every alley, lined wi
th stalls, was packed to the hilt with goods including beautiful longyis and shawls as well as other fabric and silks. These she loved, but whenever she touched one the mainly Indian stall owners, dressed in white shirts and trousers, would rather frighteningly burst out from where they had been squatting on a bench behind and beseech her to buy. Of course, she didn’t actually know what they were saying but it stood to reason. She muttered something about returning later and carried on in search of the spicy smells that had drawn her in.
Next came an area where prettily dressed Burmese girls in longyis and short jackets hovered behind huge sacks of differing grains. The girls dipped their heads demurely and then giggled behind their hands. Belle had no idea what the grains were and when she tried to ask for directions to the spices they giggled even more and, arguing among themselves, pointed in opposing directions. She passed stalls selling the pieces of wood from which thanaka was made, the strange yellow paste the women coated their faces in, as well as stalls selling seeds and nuts.
Led mainly by her nose, she eventually stumbled across the intoxicating spice stalls. The huge baskets of powders, glowing in colours of yellow, red and orange, drew her eyes, as well as the sacks of chillies in every size and shape. Strange brown knobbly spices sat next to bowls of roots, and when she held a piece of one to her nose and sniffed, it reminded her of ginger biscuits. There were stalls selling tiger skins too, plus skulls of animals and other parts of various skeletons, though she had no idea what they were.
But the heady scents thrilled her, reminding her she was in Burma and that it really didn’t feel the tiniest bit British. She bought some ginger and a little bag of red powder with the most gorgeous aromatic smell and then looked around for the way out. But the colossal market was deceptive, and she was unable to identify the way. After a momentary panic, she decided she would just choose any direction and keep going until she spotted daylight ahead. Eventually the smell of charcoal burning told her she was close and when she reached an opening she stumbled on stalls displaying fruit and vegetables, some of which she’d never seen before. She bought a large green melon, intending to share it with Rebecca. Then, bypassing the rough peasant-like woman reeking of rice wine and selling grubby squares of what looked like solid rice pudding, she found herself back on the street. A blue bird with a large orange beak sat self-importantly on the hood of a rickshaw. Feeling considerably proud of herself, she hailed the driver and asked him to take her back to the hotel.
In the dark corridor outside their room a tall man was striding towards her. As he passed he nodded and then walked briskly on. Maybe a member of staff, she thought, though a bit odd to see a man, especially a Eurasian man, in the girls-only corridor. When she stepped into her room it was to find Rebecca sitting cross-legged on the floor, reading Belle’s own notebook, the place where she recorded her private thoughts from time to time, and where the newspaper cuttings were hidden. She darted forward and, feeling a rush of fury, snatched it from the other girl’s hands.
‘How dare you?! That’s personal.’
Rebecca stared up at her. ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I found it lying open on the floor. Sorry, didn’t think you’d mind.’
‘You’re a bloody liar. I didn’t leave it on the floor.’
‘I swear.’
‘No. You may not be the brightest button in the box, but it doesn’t take a genius to realize a notebook with my name on is private. Or don’t people write where you come from?’
Rebecca rose to her feet. ‘No need to be rude. I said I was sorry.’
Belle felt her cheeks warm up and then, without any warning, tears started to slide down her face. She swiped them away angrily, but they kept on falling.
Rebecca came closer, placed a hand on her shoulder and gently squeezed. ‘Hey, don’t take on. It’s only a book.’
‘But it’s …’ Belle sobbed, not wanting to say. ‘Just for me and there’s things …’
Rebecca shepherded her towards the bed. ‘Now sit. I’m going to get you a brandy.’
‘I don’t really –’ she began, but the other girl had already left the room.
Belle still couldn’t staunch the tears as she tried to unwind her tangled thoughts. What if Rebecca had read the accusation in the newspaper clipping? She berated herself, wishing she’d left the cuttings in her trunk. What if Rebecca knew everything? As images spooled through her mind, it was as if everything she’d been holding in was now pouring out. Her father’s death, the awful discovery of the missing sister, the policeman, the way the other girls had been with her.
As a child she had needed someone who could tell when she was feeling sad, but there had been nobody. Mrs Wilkes had done her best, but she’d been a bustling kind of a woman who brooked no nonsense. Keeping occupied had been her way to deal with an unjust world. Belle recalled her sparkly eyes and ample backside. Dear Mrs Wilkes, who made delicious pies with the Bramleys that grew in the little orchard at the bottom of the garden, which she also preserved in Kilner jars. Feeling a bit better, Belle wiped her eyes and for the first time tried properly to picture the sister she had never even known existed. A baby. Just a little baby.
Rebecca returned, sat beside Belle and pressed a glass of brandy into her hand.
As Belle gulped, the warmth flooded her veins. Perhaps it was time to change her mind about alcohol – after all … she was not her mother.
‘Now,’ Rebecca said gently. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘I thought I’d left the notebook under my pillow.’
‘Honestly, it was on the floor.’
Belle nodded. ‘I left in a hurry. It might have fallen, I suppose.’
‘So?’
‘Everyone hates me.’
‘The girls?’
Belle sniffed miserably. ‘Yes.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll sort the girls.’ Rebecca handed her a handkerchief. ‘It’s clean. Now come on, what’s the matter? It can’t only be that.’
Belle listened to the drone of traffic rising from the street below. Then, for the second time that day, found herself recounting the time when her father had died, and she’d discovered the story of the missing baby. She sniffed, surprised that despite her best efforts not to care, it had suddenly become more real to her. Rebecca was a good listener and waited quietly until Belle had finished.
‘So, tell me about the notebook,’ she said eventually. ‘I’d hardly read anything when you came in.’
‘There’s stuff about my mother.’
‘She’s still alive, right?’
Belle couldn’t find a way to reply.
‘Brothers or sisters?’
‘Nope.’
Rebecca put an arm around Belle’s shoulders. ‘You poor old thing. And now you’ve come over here and we’re mean to you.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does. And that’s going to change. Promise.’
Belle smiled weakly. ‘I’m such a sop. Sorry.’
‘You’ve a lot on your plate.’
‘I met a man who says he can take me to my parents’ old place.’
‘Who?’
‘Oliver Donohue. A journalist.’
‘A tasty one at that,’ Rebecca said and then laughed. ‘And one for the ladies, I’ve heard.’
‘Is he?’
Rebecca shrugged and stood up. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Come on, dry your eyes, splash your face and put on a pretty dress. We, young lady, are going out.’
‘But I’m blotchy and I’ve got rehearsals.’
‘Not for hours and hours. Come on. Oh, I almost forgot, it’s for you,’ she said, picking up an envelope and holding it out to Belle.
‘Who’s it from?’
‘Blowed if I know.’ She grinned. ‘Try opening it.’
As Belle tore it open she hoped it might be from Oliver. It was not. She read it a couple of times before looking up.
‘You’ve gone all white,’ Rebecca said, frowning. ‘What does it say?’
‘Oh God!’ Belle said, and a shiver of fear slid through her. ‘What does it mean?’
‘Means someone is out to rattle you.’
‘But who could they be referring to?’ Her voice had turned croaky.
Rebecca shook her head and then glanced up at Belle. ‘Could be a genuine warning, I suppose.’
‘But you don’t really think so?’
‘No. Like I said, I think it’s some idiot trying to rattle you.’
Belle felt unsure. It had certainly rattled her. More than that, it had scared her, and now she didn’t know what to think.
‘The question is why,’ Rebecca said. There was a short silence before she added, ‘So, out of everyone you’ve met so far, who do you trust?’
Belle didn’t reply but thought about it. After a few moments she looked at Rebecca. ‘I saw a man in our corridor. Eurasian, I think. Did he deliver it?’
‘Didn’t see. It was slipped under the door.’
‘Pity.’
‘Come on, let’s forget about the stupid note.’
‘Should I go to the police?’
‘Go bleating to them and say what? “Someone sent me a mean note.” They’d laugh in your face.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Look, after my special treat for you, I don’t half fancy getting sozzled. Join me?’
‘I’ve never even been tipsy.’
‘Blimey!’
12.
Diana, Cheltenham, 1921
They found nothing when they dug up my beautiful garden in Burma, nothing at all, except for the bootee, so what was the point? Here, as the first blush of dawn filters through my curtains, I hear the chorus of birds greeting the day. I stand at the window for a long time gazing out as the sun tints the treetops gold. When I peer down from the window I see a man wearing a grey trilby and navy-blue mackintosh turn into our front entrance. I falter. It’s still early. Have they come for me already? When I hear voices lower down in the house, I steal across to my door and open it slightly, acutely aware of the tread of my footsteps on the creaking floorboards. The front doorbell chimes and after it has been opened I hear voices again. This time from the hall and a little louder than before, although still muted, and not loud enough for me to hear what they are saying.
The Missing Sister Page 5