Think you know who to trust? Look harder …
On the evening Belle met Edward to go to the dinner at the Governor’s residence, she hoped the gown she’d had made up in the Chinese quarter was smart enough. The evening dress Edward wore made the most of his slim, athletic build, somehow accentuating the distinguished slice of silvery grey hair at his temples. She hadn’t really been terribly keen to go, and had worried that it might be stuffy, but when she and Edward arrived at the opulent building it totally confounded her – and not in an especially good way.
‘Completed in 1895,’ Edward said, noticing her astonishment as they got out of the car. ‘The architect, Henry Hoyne-Fox, described it as being in the “Queen Anne Renaissance Style”.’
She nodded and continued to stare up at the grand domed towers and extravagant architecture as they stood together. ‘Do you like it?’ she asked cautiously.
He roared with laughter. ‘Like? No! I think it’s the most hideous example of overwrought building I’ve ever seen.’
Despite her earlier reservations about coming, and appreciating his honesty, she laughed too.
‘Shall we go in? There are drinks on the terrace I believe and then I have some news for you.’
‘Why not tell me now?’
He hesitated but then inclined his head. ‘It’s a bit of a long story.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘Well, the thing is, a chap I know found a misfiled memo in the police records.’
He talked as they walked and he told her that at one point a Burman had been accused of taking the baby but was later released. However, it turned out the police must have found new evidence and decided to charge him after all, but before they could do so he had been killed in a motorbike accident.
‘None of this appears to have been released to the press, but from what I can gather, there is a strong suggestion the police remained convinced he was involved in the baby’s disappearance, at least in some way.’
‘What was the evidence? Can I see the memo?’
‘Unfortunately, we can’t allow it. Police records protected, and so on. But I’ve told you everything you need to know. Soon after that your parents went home to England.’
‘And that was that?’
Studying her at arm’s length, he inclined his head in agreement. ‘Yes. That was that.’
She wanted to assent but something stopped her. ‘Except it wasn’t, was it? I still don’t know what really happened.’
He nodded. ‘But doesn’t it put your mind at rest to at least know your mother was released without charge?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she said, but couldn’t help thinking about Elvira.
He moved closer and held her hand in his. ‘Look, I do wonder how you can hope to find out what happened to your sister all these years later when the police drew such a blank at the time. Does it matter so much to you?’
‘Well, no, at first it didn’t but now …’ Her voice trailed off.
She could see him suppress a smile. ‘Now, young lady, no buts.’
He’d spoken cheerily and there was a short silence before she spoke again.
‘Thanks for this,’ she said eventually.
He gave her a broad grin and she found herself warming to him. ‘Now, I rather think it’s time to enjoy the evening, don’t you?’
She hadn’t been expecting to have fun at such a formal dinner but to her surprise she was enjoying being with Edward. As well as knowing everyone, he was a bright, intelligent man, extremely attentive and excellent company. However, as soon as it was over she knew she would have to face the challenge of writing to Simone again. It was problematic writing to someone she didn’t know and, so far, she’d made three futile attempts. All of them ending crumpled up in the waste-paper basket. Tonight, she would be straightforward and simply ask her what she remembered about her mother and the events of 1911.
20.
Diana, Cheltenham, 1922
When Simone walks through the door, I feel myself welling up. Although I had vowed I wouldn’t cry, I am so relieved to see her I can’t stop. She drops her bag on the floor and within a moment I’m enfolded in her arms. I can’t explain how grateful I am that she still cares.
‘Diana,’ she says and, pulling away gently, scrutinizes me. ‘How are you?’
‘Come to the window,’ I say, wanting her to understand how this precious window on to the world is my lifeline and I don’t want anyone to take it away. ‘My whole world is out there.’
We walk over to look out at the park. It’s turned into a beautiful spring day with a generous blue sky and fluffy white clouds. So still. So soothing. Like the sea on a sweet summer’s day when the waves roll in so lazily the whole world feels at peace. Every summer I remember our cook packing a hamper filled with cream buns, cucumber sandwiches, chicken pies and jam tarts. All my favourite things to take down to the beach at Bantham in Devon.
I glance at Simone’s perfect straight-nosed profile as she stands waiting for me to say something.
‘Have you spoken to Douglas?’ I ask, hoping the answer is no.
‘I have.’
‘So, he has told you about the dreaded Grange?’
She nods and puts an arm around my shoulders. ‘Darling, don’t you think it might help to be away from here for a while? I don’t think being cooped up for hours on your own is doing you much good.’
I scowl at her, more aggressively than I intended. ‘I’m not going.’
‘It might help. You’d receive expert nursing care. There’d be things to do.’
‘Basket work,’ I snort and shake my head. I don’t tell her I’ve heard about these terrible places where husbands send their once-loved wives. ‘I would be left to die.’
‘That can’t be true. Douglas wouldn’t let it happen.’
I try to halt it, but pain rips through my chest. ‘Douglas wants rid of me and you know what he’s like. Once he’s decided on something he never changes his mind.’
‘Darling, he doesn’t want rid. He loves you.’
I look for the truth in her tone and shake my head again. For the first time I notice the grey in her blonde hair. ‘I’m so sorry about Roger,’ I manage to say. ‘He was a good husband.’
She nods. ‘I miss him terribly.’
We exchange looks and I feel comforted that we still understand each other.
‘He loved you,’ I say.
‘Yes.’
‘And Douglas used to love me. Now he wants me locked away. I’m an inconvenience. They want something to call my illness, so they say I have psychotic depression, you know, because of …’ I stumble over my words.
‘Because of?’ she says gently.
‘The voices I hear.’
I stare at her. She’s always been such a good friend to me so I reach out a hand. ‘Talk to Douglas for me. Tell him I’m taking the Veronal.’
Her brow puckers. ‘And are you? Truly?’
I can’t lie to her and suck in my breath before I own up. ‘It makes me feel terrible. But I will take it, I promise.’
‘He’s worried about you going off somewhere unaccompanied or wandering the house at night while everyone is asleep.’
I feel a flash of rage and my heart speeds up. ‘I’m not a child.’
‘He’s afraid you might fall. At least at the Grange there would be somebody on duty.’
There is a short silence and I wonder what else she’s thinking. Eventually she asks me if I feel awful all the time and I tell her it comes in waves. She smiles and looks hopeful.
There is a short silence while I wonder whether to speak.
‘He had an affair,’ I say eventually, and look into her beautiful amber eyes, so kind, so loyal, and wonder if she knew, but her hand flies to her mouth and she looks genuinely shocked.
‘When I was pregnant with Elvira.’
‘You never said.’
I think back to the day I confronted him when he came home smelling of another woman’s scent and
with an awful look of shame in his eyes. I’d thought he could do no wrong until then. At least he had the decency to look embarrassed at being caught out but, in a way, I wish I hadn’t known because once he’d so diminished himself in my eyes I couldn’t feel the same. There was always the feeling from then on that something had been broken. I don’t know if Douglas felt it too. I suspect he did. But even when I screamed at him he wouldn’t tell me who the woman was.
‘It was the shame,’ I say.
‘His shame?’
‘Both our shames. I was a woman who couldn’t keep her husband.’
‘So, did he confess? How did you find out?’
I shrug. I had suspected all the women in Rangoon, all but Simone, even that bloody awful woman, the Governor’s wife. So damned self-righteous, the very worst kind of Englishwoman.
‘All water under the bridge now,’ I say. ‘Lots of men had affairs, didn’t they?’
Simone sighs.
‘He used to write me a note every morning, you know, and I’d find it in an envelope popped on to the tray when the silent-footed butler brought my early tea and toast.’
And, at the beginning, life had been sweet indeed. Nothing could touch us, cocooned together as we were. Douglas, my rock, my love, my everything. But in time I had felt horribly constricted, had begun to feel as if I couldn’t breathe.
‘Oh, those early days,’ I whisper.
‘You miss them and yet you don’t.’
‘That’s it. That’s it exactly.’
We are silent for a while.
‘Darling, you’re not even dressed,’ Simone says at last, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Shall I wash and set your hair, and then pick you out something pretty to wear? Maybe afterwards we could go out to the café in the park for afternoon tea.’
I smile at her and, although I am terrified, I tell her I couldn’t ask for anything better. But going out? I breathe in. I breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. And then, in that moment, and entirely unexpectedly, I feel I might be able.
‘How long is it since you were last out?’
‘Weeks. Months maybe.’
‘Too long. Darling, you really could do with someone to watch over you.’
‘Maybe you could do it?’ I laugh as if I hadn’t really meant it.
She regards me carefully, choosing her words. ‘Diana, I honestly believe you can get better. We underestimate what the mind can do.’
‘You think?’
‘I more than think. You’ll see.’
I smile at her and a bubble of hope rises in me.
‘There. You’re already feeling better. I promise we will find a way. All you need is a better place of safety.’
Simone’s cheerful presence has lightened my heart and, infused by the sudden startling wish for something new, I see the slanting shadows of the trees. A place of safety. Was there such a place?
21.
After posting her letter to Simone and having braved the seething mass of rickshaws, cars, bullock carts and bicycles, narrowly escaping a collision with an electric tramway carriage, Belle arrived at the spectacular offices of the citadel-like Secretariat. This was the administrative seat of the entire colonial government. Set in extensive gardens on Judah Ezekiel Street, the sprawling complex of buildings was built of red brick in the Victorian style. Once inside, Belle faced a confusing labyrinth of halls and corridors. Each department was signposted, from Revenue to Judicial, to Sanitary, plus many, many more.
An army of clerks, secretaries, record keepers and so on scurried from one place to another, giving her brief and confusing directions while on the hoof, so it took Belle an age to locate the office of the registrar. She worried she’d be late for her meeting with Oliver. He’d turned up unexpectedly the night before to hear her sing and although the words on the note – Think you know who to trust? Look harder – had played on her mind, because they might well refer to him, they’d agreed to meet today for another visit to Golden Valley, this time with the keys.
When she finally located the registry, a bored, badly dressed man glanced up from his desk and indicated she should sit. Odd that crumpled suit, she thought, because his fingernails were carefully manicured, so he clearly cared about some aspects of his appearance. While she explained her situation, he didn’t meet her eyes, his gaze resting on a spot inches above her right ear.
‘You’ll need your father’s death certificate and his will.’ He’d spoken quietly, in the way of people who force you to lean forward so you have to put in all the effort.
She withdrew the documents from her bag and passed them across the desk. He studied them and nodded.
‘I see you are the sole beneficiary to his entire estate,’ he said, his voice thin and bored.
She nodded, the emotion of dealing with her father’s death once again catching in her throat.
‘I need your birth certificate and passport to prove you are who you say you are.’
She pulled herself together. ‘I have those.’
‘And something to prove your father is the same Douglas Hatton as this one on the deeds.’
‘How do I do that?’
He gave her an excruciating look, as if the whole experience of working at the registry was insufferable. ‘Well, first, we need to conduct an official search for the land registration documents and the deeds. There may be a deed of sale attached which should include his previous address in England.’
‘Can we look for it now?’
‘There is a fee. And if everything is in order you will also need to prove your residence here.’
‘I have a contract of employment.’
He nodded and as he bent his head to look at the will again she noticed a bald patch ineffectively disguised by a thin comb-over of hair.
‘A contract of employment should suffice,’ he said, looking up again.
‘What about the keys to the house?’
‘With the solicitor, I imagine. We will need to retain an authenticated copy of the will. Once we’ve located the deeds, the solicitor’s name should be on the deed of sale. If the solicitor is also a notary public, he has authority to sign it off.’
‘And I get an authenticated copy how?’
‘The solicitor’s clerk can do it.’
‘Gosh, it’s a lot to have to sort out. I was hoping to have the keys today.’
He gave her a condescending smile. ‘Come back in a few days and we’ll look at the registry details.’
Back at the hotel, unsure if Oliver had already been and gone, Belle waited beneath the porch. She was late, very late, but hoped he still might turn up. The Indian doorman noticed her pacing back and forth and offered to help. When she asked if he’d seen a tall man with piercing blue eyes and light-brown hair, he beamed at her.
‘Mr Donohue?’
She grinned. ‘You know him?’
‘I do indeed. A good man. Got to the bottom of a burglary at my wife’s shop when the police did nothing. Helped a lot of us local people get justice. As I say, a good man.’
He went on to tell her that Oliver had not been seen outside the hotel during the last few hours.
When three of the dancers came out, giggling and laughing, they greeted Belle with waves and smiles. Rebecca had been good for her word and Belle’s relationship with the dancers had lost its sourness. She rolled her shoulders and waited a little longer, but then, feeling disappointed, was just turning to go back to her room when she heard Oliver call her name. She spun round and felt a burst of pleasure as she saw him striding towards her, more deeply suntanned than ever.
‘Hello,’ he said, blue eyes sparkling, she hoped, with the same satisfaction at seeing her that she was feeling at seeing him. ‘My editor insisted on some last-minute changes. I didn’t think you’d still be here.’
Even more relieved to see him than she’d expected to be, she smiled broadly.
‘Shall we take the tram?’ she said.
‘Sure, let’s make tracks.’
As they
sat close together on the tram she felt his presence intensely and found it hard to articulate her thoughts. Was he feeling it too? Or was it only her? Either way she felt invigorated at his proximity, although a little bit shy too. She shifted a little to defuse the tingling sensation going on all over her skin and after a moment or two managed to explain she didn’t have the keys. They could enter the same way as before and, while they were in the area, they might also find some neighbours to question. Whatever Edward had hinted about it being a waste of time, she increasingly wanted to find out what had happened to the baby. And you never knew, someone might remember something.
Although she was excited to see the house for a second time, Belle couldn’t help thinking about her mother again. But not the one who lived in the upstairs room and who’d once woken her at midnight insisting they put on their wellington boots and slip out to the garden to cut flowers. Instead, a different and magical version of her mother occupied her imagination. She smiled at the thought and Oliver glanced at her.
‘What?’
‘Oh, silly memories. That’s all.’
‘I’m sure your memories aren’t silly.’
You might not say that if you knew, she thought, as the mother of her imagination helped her with her arithmetic while they sat at the kitchen table together, teasing each other and laughing at the silly mistakes they both made. This mother made up delicious picnics they shared sitting on a tartan rug beside the lake, before throwing the crusts to the ducks and geese.
‘You lived in the countryside?’ Oliver said, interrupting her thoughts.
She shook her head. ‘A town. A Regency town in Gloucestershire.’
‘I grew up in the city too.’
She laughed. ‘I don’t think Cheltenham compares to New York. But we went to the countryside and sometimes to the sea.’
The only time she had actually been to the seaside in the summer was to stay with her grandfather in Devon. Her mother found the beach too untidy, the sand scratchy and too unforgiving, the sea too wild. And it had given her a headache, so they’d gone home early. Home for the week had been her grandfather’s sweet little cottage in Bantham, although he was a quiet and solitary soul who wouldn’t play games and spent most of the day alone in his study. They’d only gone there once again, and that had been for Christmas.
The Missing Sister Page 9