The Missing Sister

by Dinah Jefferies

  Oliver’s voice broke into her thoughts again.

  ‘We’re here,’ he said. ‘You keep drifting off.’

  Once inside the house, Belle felt suddenly awed. Everything was exactly as it had been the last time they had broken in and yet it was different too.

  ‘You sure you’re okay?’ he said, picking up on her mood.

  ‘Of course. I’m excited.’

  But she wasn’t simply excited. She was full of questions too. How had they kept so much from her? How was it possible she had never known she’d once had a sister? And now, because of what had happened here, her mother’s illness began to make sense. Had she spent her whole life judging Diana Hatton unfairly?

  ‘You never explained what happened to your mother,’ Oliver was saying with such a perceptive look in his eyes. Had he known what she’d been thinking? He was certainly shrewd enough.

  ‘I know your father died, of course,’ he added.

  Belle hesitated. This was not something she usually discussed.

  He put a hand on her arm. ‘Sorry. You don’t have to.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said, but all the same waited a little longer for her emotions to subside. They didn’t and she continued to feel edgy as she glanced around her. The room smelt stale and it seemed as if her lungs were preventing her from breathing properly. For a moment she felt as she had done as a child when things became too hard to bear.

  ‘She went,’ she said rather sharply.

  ‘Where?’ he asked, unperturbed by her tone.

  ‘Nobody knows.’

  ‘Must have been tough for you.’

  She looked right into his eyes. ‘No. It was a relief. Well, mainly it was. Is that awful?’

  He held her gaze and shook his head.

  ‘And then she died. Eventually. My father was the one who told me.’

  She paused, wishing she could shake off the wretched memory of the rainy day her father had passed on the news. True, it had been a relief in a way, and she’d never hinted how frequently she still dreamt of her mother standing at the foot of her bed with a strangely significant longing in her eyes. Nor did she ever reveal she’d woken day after day with wet cheeks. It would have upset her father to know the truth, and so she’d lied.

  She dug her fingernails into her palms. ‘Look, do you mind if we change the subject?’

  ‘Of course. Shall we go outside?’

  She had the sense he’d wanted to comfort her, hug her maybe, but she didn’t want his pity. She’d never really come to terms with her conflicting feelings about her mother and doubted she ever would.

  When she’d written to Simone the night before, a wave of homesickness had caught hold of her and an echo of it still lingered today. And yet there was no longer a home to go to, no longer a family to which she belonged. She was on her own.

  As they made their way through the tangles of tropical plants surrounding the house, Oliver asked what she intended doing with the place once it was hers. The truth was, she had no idea. Sell it at a knock-down price to Edward perhaps? He’d already expressed an interest and she hardly relished the responsibility of its restoration. Apart from anything else, how long was she likely to remain in Burma? Her plan had been to travel and keep on singing. And yet the house was so beautiful – or at least it could be.

  She thought again of the letter she’d sent Simone. When she’d asked the clerk at the post office how long it would take to reach her, he’d said it was fortunate she’d used airmail paper as it would only require about nine days. By sea and rail, it would be at least fifteen, possibly even a month. So, she’d be unlikely to hear anything back for at least twenty days and that was assuming Simone replied quickly.

  Once away from the house, she glanced at the little green birds lining the telegraph wires threading along the road, birds with yellow heads and long tails, looking so sweet. Despite her earlier unsettled feelings she now felt buoyant and relaxed. This place had done it … this place with its beautiful old houses and lovely gardens. But then she remembered something and in a flash her mood changed.

  ‘My father upset someone important,’ she said suddenly as the memory returned. ‘An old boy I met at the Pegu hinted at it.’

  ‘You went there?’

  She nodded. ‘With Edward de Clemente.’

  The skin around his eyes tightened but he only asked if she knew what her father had done and who he had upset.

  When she told him she wasn’t sure, he hesitated as if he was deciding what to say and she felt there might be something he was keeping from her.

  She spun around and took one last look at the house. ‘I’ll be back, you lovely old place,’ she whispered, ‘and then we’ll work out what to do with you.’

  ‘I think you’ve fallen in love,’ he said.

  She could feel herself blushing furiously.

  They passed a middle-aged Indian man standing in front of the gate to the nearest house. A gardener, she thought, judging by his clothes.

  She and Oliver exchanged glances and then stepped towards him.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said, and the man inclined his head. ‘Does he understand me?’ she asked Oliver, who just looked amused.

  ‘Yes, madam, I speak English for many years now,’ the man said.

  She felt herself blushing again. ‘Of course. I’m sorry. Do you mind me asking how long you have worked here?’

  His smile was proud. ‘All my life, madam.’

  ‘So, you started here when?’

  ‘As a boy. I was fifteen and so it must have been 1895.’

  ‘Quite a while then.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you remember the time when a baby disappeared from the garden next door?’

  He frowned and then with a solemn look he spoke. ‘A terrible time it was. The police were everywhere.’

  ‘And what did people think had happened?’

  ‘Many of the British thought it was the lady herself.’

  ‘And you? What did you think?’

  He shook his head. ‘I knew the poor lady. She was always polite to me, enquiring after my family and such. No, I never could believe such a thing of her.’

  ‘So, what did you think happened to the baby?’

  ‘I do not know, but the local Burmese people said the baby was taken by supernatural forces summoned by the angry family of a man the lady’s husband had convicted.’

  Oliver glanced at Belle and nodded. ‘The Burmese are highly superstitious.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, they believe in nats. Spirits, if you like. They erect magical devices outside their houses to prevent the evil spirits from entering.’

  ‘But what exactly are nats?’

  ‘Anything from a spirit living in a tree to a Hindu deity. We could probably find out if your father had ever been threatened with a nat.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Oliver. What would be the point?’ She turned to the gardener. ‘Thank you for talking to me.’

  He bowed, then opened the gate and walked through.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘What now?’

  Oliver hesitated for a moment. ‘Coffee at my place? I have something to show you.’

  And I you, she thought. Intrigued, she said she’d be delighted.

  His apartment was in a purpose-built Victorian block. The sitting room was painted a soft white and, equipped with rattan furniture, comfy emerald-coloured silk cushions and beautiful blue and green Persian rugs, felt unexpectedly homely, as if it had enjoyed a woman’s touch. Four tall oriental-looking lamps stood in the corners of the room casting a soft patterned glow on to the parquet flooring. Billowing white curtains framed a fine view of tall trees in the street beyond, a polished coffee table sat in front of a sofa and a small desk was pushed up against one wall. Another wall boasted floor-to-ceiling shelves of teak packed tightly with books almost to overflowing. Pleased to be in his apartment, and smiling to herself, she felt at ease. She walked along the length of the sh
elves, glancing at the book titles and running a finger over their spines.

  ‘You have eclectic tastes.’

  ‘I have to in my game.’

  ‘Game? Is that what journalism is to you? A sport?’

  He grinned. ‘You’re very hard on me.’

  She laughed. ‘Am I?’

  He went into another room, and she could hear the clunk of china and cutlery as he prepared their coffee. After a few minutes he came back carrying a tray with the coffee already poured into dainty white cups, accompanied by a selection of unusual biscuits, or maybe they were cakes.

  He saw her looking. ‘They’re Indian. Try one.’

  She picked one and bit into the scented sweetness.

  ‘So what was it you wanted to show me?’

  22.

  Diana, Cheltenham, 1922

  Douglas rarely comes to my room, but today he has, and I can’t imagine what he wants. No, that’s not at all true. He must be here to talk about the Grange. Again. I resolve to remain as calm as possible, give him no excuse to send me away, but in my agitation I can’t stop walking back and forth.

  ‘I’ve been talking to Simone,’ he says, and I notice how stooped he has become. There had always been a hint of it because he is so tall, but now it’s more pronounced.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She seems to think being here in this house is doing you no good.’

  I stop in my tracks, chest constricting. ‘I won’t go to the Grange.’

  He frowns. ‘Don’t glare at me, Diana. I understand you don’t want to go but, my dear, I fear Simone is right. Your being here is not helping.’

  I smell the hint of cumin and orange on his skin as I pass and I stare at his beautiful deep eyes behind those spectacles and the once dear face, but I don’t speak. Why should I make it easy for him?

  ‘It’s not doing Annabelle any good either.’ He pauses. ‘I know you are suffering but she is too. I don’t mean to be cruel, but I wonder if you realize she fears you? She insists on having her bedroom door locked at night and sometimes won’t rest until she comes in with me.’

  ‘Why?’ I say, shocked to hear it.

  ‘Oh, my dear, you must know she is scared when you wake her in the middle of the night with some madcap idea.’

  ‘I merely thought it would be nice to pick some flowers.’

  ‘That was only the most recent incident. There have been others and, darling, she’s now a little girl who’s too anxious to go to sleep. Our lovely child has become a terribly nervous little girl and it isn’t fair. You must see.’

  My eyes heat up because I know it’s the truth. I’ve seen her helpless wide-eyed shock and it has frightened me.

  ‘Things cannot go on as they are. If our daughter hears you about the house during the day she hides, makes herself scarce.’

  I cover my face with my hands, not wanting to see him as he tells me this.

  ‘Only last week Mrs Wilkes found her in the broom cupboard. The lock had jammed, and she’d been trapped in there crying her eyes out. I have my work and can’t be here to watch Annabelle. Mrs Wilkes is unable to stay for more than one night each week, so the upshot is Simone has suggested another possibility for you.’

  I suck in air. Please. Please. Surely Simone hasn’t betrayed me? Don’t let him send me to the Grange.

  He narrows his eyes and doesn’t attempt to hide the despair I see in them. ‘Please will you sit down, Diana. It’s hard to concentrate with you pacing the room.’

  Determined to maintain the right impression, I do as he asks and take the chair opposite.

  He sighs deeply. ‘Simone has kindly offered to care for you.’

  ‘Here?’

  He shakes his head. ‘In her village.’

  My heart lifts and I smile at him. ‘Live with her, you mean? How wonderful.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Let me explain. You know Simone was a nurse before she married and that her husband was a doctor?’

  I nod, silently urging him to get to the point. Of course, I know.

  ‘Her idea is for me to buy you a little cottage close to her –’

  ‘No!’ I interrupt. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Simone believes that with her help you can. She will be with you every day until you feel you can cope.’

  ‘And what if I can’t, you know … go out?’

  He looks at me steadily. ‘She’ll take care of things. This way you are free of the strain of being here.’

  I make a strangled snorting noise and can’t meet his eyes. ‘You mean you will be free of me?’

  ‘No. I mean the burden of worry about Annabelle will be gone. You will have all the time and help you need to get better. It will be better for Annabelle too. You do see I have to put her first?’

  I nod, stare at the floor for a minute, and then glance up at him. ‘Can I think about it?’

  ‘Of course, but if you agree to go ahead there will be certain conditions.’

  ‘And they are?’

  ‘Think about it first and then we’ll talk again. But don’t take too long. A darling little cottage has recently come on the market and we will have to move quickly to purchase it before somebody else does. Simone has already viewed it and she’s certain you will adore it.’

  I search his eyes for signs of falsehood. This was the man I once would have trusted with my life. Now I sense a nameless undercurrent. What is it that he’s not saying?

  ‘And you will visit?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No. That will be one of the conditions.’

  ‘How many conditions are there then?’

  ‘As I said, just think about it first.’

  23.

  While Oliver rose to his feet and walked across to the polished teak desk littered with papers and all the usual paraphernalia of writing, Belle continued to smile.

  ‘I love your place,’ she said. ‘Have you lived here long?’

  ‘A couple of years.’

  ‘You’ve made it so comfy.’

  He grinned at her. ‘Glad you like it, ma’am.’

  At the desk he pulled open a drawer and extracted a brown cardboard folder.

  ‘So,’ Belle said. ‘What is it?’

  He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. ‘You said someone had hinted your parents must have offended somebody important, that something might have happened.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I spent an hour in my newspaper’s archives and found something that may well confirm it.’

  ‘You did that for me?’

  Before he went on, he looked directly at her. She couldn’t help thinking how much she liked his lopsided smile and easy-going ways. And how his presence always seemed to instil a sense of … of … what was it? A sense she was in the right place, maybe?

  ‘Any wrongdoing by a British colonial is usually hushed up, even now, but more so back then, so for your mother to be publicly accused there must have been a damn good reason.’

  ‘Was it something my mother had done?’

  ‘Partly, but it began with an unpopular ruling of your father’s.’

  ‘Heavens! What was it?’

  ‘It’s not the usual run of things.’

  She sighed. ‘For goodness’ sake, spit it out.’

  ‘Your father committed to prison a British officer for the rape of an Indian woman. The entire British community was so outraged that the ruling was overturned, but the result was your father’s reputation was severely dented.’

  Belle pictured her father’s solemn expression and kind eyes and the thought of him being treated so unfairly really hurt her.

  ‘And you think that’s why they accused my mother?’

  ‘Maybe. But there’s more. During a formal function at the Governor’s house, your mother threw a glass of champagne at the Governor’s wife. Right in the face. No idea why but she was seen by a doctor and sedated. Look, here are the cuttings.’

  Belle leafed through the various pie
ces but, though reeling from the news, something else was troubling her. What it was she couldn’t fully grasp, but it made her feel uneasy. She got to her feet and went to lean with her back against a cool wall to think about it.

  ‘What?’ Oliver asked.

  When clarity came it brought the realization she was feeling doubtful about Edward’s story. He’d told her about a man who’d been about to be charged, and had then been killed in a motorbike accident, but she felt unsure about it now. It seemed a bit too convenient, a way of swiftly wrapping up what had happened so it could be brushed under the carpet and forgotten.

  And she wasn’t interpreting things in the same way as Oliver was either. Oliver had suggested her mother might have been accused because of an unpopular ruling of her father’s. But if her mother’s behaviour had been extreme enough to throw champagne in the face of someone so important, even before the baby was born, maybe that proved she had been crazy enough to have hurt the baby. Such an act, equivalent to throwing champagne in the face of the monarch … well, nobody in their right mind would dare.

  Belle walked over to contemplate the fine view of tall trees and thought about Edward. Had it been an act of kindness? Had he been trying to protect her from the truth that her mother really had been guilty? He’d given such a vague excuse about why she couldn’t read the memo herself. Or might his story be true after all, because had her mother really been guilty, surely they wouldn’t have let her go? It was all so confusing and her mind circled the different possibilities until it spun. Then, remembering the anonymous note, she picked up her bag, fished inside for it and turned to Oliver.

  ‘I have something to show you too. It’s just a stupid note,’ she said dismissively, to hide the fact it had really bothered her.