The Missing Sister

by Dinah Jefferies

  There’s a knock on the door and Simone walks in wearing a flowery summer dress beneath a lightweight cream raincoat.

  ‘Will it rain today?’ I ask.

  She shrugs. ‘It might. Are you ready?’

  I nod and take one last glance around my room. Goodbye, room, I think. Goodbye, park. And in that moment I feel utterly bereft.

  ‘Can you give me a few seconds?’

  ‘All right. I’m parked just outside the gate, so it will only take a moment before we’re in the car. You’ve taken your medication?’

  I give her what I hope is more than a wan smile and hold myself together.

  34.

  The riverboat, owned by the Irrawaddy Flotilla Company and captained by a Scot, was smaller than Belle had expected, but her first-class cabin was snug and comfy. After the relief at finding out from Edward that the baby she’d rescued had eventually been reunited with a grandmother, she’d packed a few things and boarded the night before. Edward had told her the child’s name was Madhu, and that it meant ‘honey’. Her grandmother lived in one of the villages not far from Rangoon, so the child would grow up safely and hopefully not remember a thing. But how much had the tiny little mite really witnessed? Aware that nothing could have prevented the child from hearing the screams as the murders happened, Belle forced herself not to picture it. But at least the little girl would be cared for, so something good had come of it, though how Belle herself would ever fully recover she had no idea.

  The boat had been moored under a starless sky, so there had been little to see as she’d boarded, and she hadn’t really cared. Although the light from the lanterns dancing on the water had been pretty she’d been tired and sick at heart. Refusing the proffered cocktail, she’d headed for her bed and remembered what the fortune teller had said. Well, he’d been right about the journey.

  After an unexpectedly good sleep, she was woken by the engines gearing up and, wanting to see the river by daylight, dressed hurriedly. Then, as she climbed the slippery metal stairs up to the observation deck, taking extra care with her still-aching leg, she saw the wide river was wreathed in a hazy golden mist. Grateful for her mother’s old cashmere shawl, she wrapped it around her shoulders.

  When she’d requested time off, Fowler’s usually florid complexion had turned completely purple, his square physique puffed up even more than usual and his eyebrows looked in danger of dancing right off his face. Belle had managed to conceal her amusement as he emphasized how problematic this would be. She already knew Gloria had put in a word for her and Fowler would not dare deny her request, but she had to go through the pretence of pleading and then thanking him effusively when he finally relented. Less than three weeks he’d given her, and she hoped it would suffice.

  As she ate her breakfast – a strange concoction of sticky noodles with slices of chicken and an over-sweet sauce – she surveyed the few other passengers who were already breakfasting. A couple of well-dressed businessmen tucking into an English breakfast, three solitary Burmese men in traditional dress and one heavily pregnant Burmese woman, wearing a longyi of pink and green, and with flowers in her hair. She smiled sweetly at Belle and Belle managed a weak one in return. Comfortable rattan chairs and tables dotted the deck, interspersed with magnificent potted palms, and, at the bow, a row of canvas deckchairs were at the disposal of those who wished to sit in the sun.

  In fact, the mist soon burnt off and, as Belle focused on the day, she saw that putting some distance between herself and what had happened in Rangoon had been the right thing to do. Spirits somewhat uplifted by the gorgeous morning with its sapphire blue sky and sunlight casting glittering diamonds across the water, she had a strong feeling this boat trip upriver might help. As a flock of herons took off, Belle took it as a sign of good fortune.

  The boat slowly slid its way north. An hour or so passed and she found the peace soothing as she watched the sunshine enhancing the shadowy depths of the tall rain trees beyond the riverbanks. Even the grasses and bushes at the edges remained still and Belle, struck by the timeless quality of the scene, felt her jangled nerves calming. Here and there they passed villagers going about their daily tasks, preparing nets, washing clothes in the river then slapping them against the rocks. Others were cooking on open fires while their semi-naked children played in the mud and Belle found she was smiling. Life went on as it had always done.

  An hour after that, Harry appeared, blurry-eyed and the worse for wear.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Stayed up late.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  He nodded and pushed his spectacles back up his nose.

  She watched as other boats passed silently by. First an enormous oil barge carrying, Harry said, crude oil for the Burmah Oil Company, then another weighed down with timber for the Burmah Bombay Corporation. Smaller fishing boats moved at a leisurely pace and she spotted a steamer with a flat-iron floater in tow, on to which two motor cars were roped. Cargo boats laden with goods passed in the opposite direction: jade, bullocks, blue-grey elephants, bales of cotton and bursting sacks of rice. Harry pointed them all out, revelling in his role of guide, his hangover forgotten.

  ‘Nothing enters or leaves Burma without a trip on the Irrawaddy,’ he said.

  She wondered if that applied to her sister too.

  As if sensing what she was thinking, he raised a finger. ‘Had a word with the purser about you, last night. Good chap. Likes his whisky. If you want a chat he’ll be free for pre-supper drinks.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I said you were hoping to trace a family member.’

  A volley of large black birds burst from a tree close to the water’s edge, and Belle watched as a native woman, a red scarf wrapped round her head and using her longyi as a sling to carry her baby, raised her head to follow their flight.

  She thought of Oliver and a wave of regret passed through her, but she dismissed any ideas of seeking him out again. He’d shown his true colours and that was enough, and yet, still needing to unburden herself, she would have loved to have been able to talk to him. Tell him everything. The one person who might have understood. It had never been like that with Nicholas. She shook her head. No point thinking of either of them. She and Oliver were over. But the manner of their parting still hurt, and she couldn’t talk herself out of that.

  Other than during the white glare of the midday sun, she spent the day on deck reading or sinking into reverie as she surveyed life on the river, whistling in amazement whenever she saw a series of pagodas lining its banks. Sometimes she’d spot the red hair of a wild dog but, so far, had not seen a clouded leopard, a sun bear or a baboon. She’d heard sun bears could climb trees and make a nest to sleep in. Lunch, which she took with Harry, was Burmese, a tea leaf salad followed by something they called butterfish with some intensely fragrant rice. She noticed how much Harry liked a drink and wondered about it. He had not seemed to be a drinker when she’d first met him in Rangoon, accepting only a lemonade and turning his nose up at gin. In fact, there was something jittery about him now, and she wondered what was wrong.

  As the day drew to a close, the iridescent blue of the water turned darker, the banks, lit by the low sun, shone golden, and the now lilac sky transformed the hills in the distance into a darkening smudgy blueish-grey. On deck the lamps were lit and, along with the salty, fishy smell of the river, burning oil wafted through the air. The river seemed rather spooky, as if voices were singing in the water, though it was probably sounds drifting from the villages beyond. In her mind’s eye she kept seeing the blood of the dead woman lying on the floor with herself bending over and then finding the baby hidden in a blanket. She’d been brave, the mother, to protect her child like that. Belle halted every time she began to speculate what might have happened had she not found the child.

  With the baby on her mind she watched as the people on board congregated in knots, talking and laughing as they accepted drinks from the smartly dressed waiters,
but she didn’t see the pregnant woman anywhere.

  A small man, wearing a dark-green shirt with a discreetly patterned dark longyi, was smiling as he walked towards her. She rose from her chair, but he bowed and indicated she should remain seated. As he took the chair opposite her, he introduced himself as the purser and began to speak. His English was terrible, however, and it took several attempts before she could make out he was asking how he might be able to help. Feeling flustered, she glanced around, hoping to spot Harry who would be able to translate, but when she finally spotted him, he was deep in conversation with another man, a half-empty whisky bottle on the table between them.

  After she’d explained about the rumour of a white baby having been seen with a Burmese couple all those years ago, the purser shook his head and she worked out he was saying it had been before his time. He did manage to convey that an archaeologist at Bagan might know something. He lived in the government rest house there and had been working at Bagan for many years. The rest house was a special place as it had been built in 1922 to house the Prince of Wales on his visit to Burma, though sadly he had never actually stayed there.

  When Harry finally stumbled over she asked if she might be able to stay at the rest house too and he nodded.

  ‘We have one night and a couple of days in Bagan,’ he said, in a somewhat slurred voice. ‘It’s a wonderful site of extensive and partially ruined temples, so plenty to see. And in any case, they’ll need to refuel and restock there.’

  When they arrived at Bagan over a week later, Belle had become so accustomed to the slow pace of life and the routine of the days on board she no longer knew what day it was. It had made all the difference. Her memories were fading a little and, although she knew she would never forget, should never forget, she had stopped tormenting herself so often. It would take time. And the best thing to do now was to see Bagan, meet the archaeologist and find out whatever she could.

  They had already made one overnight stop, where the crew had refuelled, although many of the passengers had remained on board including Belle and the pregnant woman who’d smiled again and said good evening in near-perfect English. Belle had then sat alone enjoying the night air and listening to the sound of tinkling Burmese music floating across from a nearby village.

  Bagan was where they were all to get off.

  Surprised by the makeshift manner of disembarking, she watched as the purser helped the pregnant woman. Belle then gladly accepted his offer to carry her small case so she could make her unsteady way across a narrow plank that traversed the worst of the mud. The riverboat itself, tethered to a stake hammered deeply into the ground, rocked gently in the water.

  Harry accompanied her in a horse and cart along a dusty track to the rest house. She stared as the generous timber-framed place came into view, built as if it belonged in the home counties of England but with oriental touches here and there. They were met by a Burmese butler who led them to an airy reception room where they were offered a delicious juice of mango and guava, and where he explained that more and more visitors had recently been coming to see the ruins. After they’d registered he showed them to their darkened rooms on the first floor.

  Once the butler had left her on her own, Belle stepped across to the shuttered windows, threw them open and surveyed the garden beyond. Enclosed by walls on three sides, all festooned with a riot of bright-purple bougainvillea, the garden itself was small but tranquil. In the middle a trickle of water suggested a fountain, though it looked unkempt and neglected. Birds swooped from tree to tree but the breeze ruffling their leaves wasn’t enough to reach her stiflingly hot room. Although she’d enjoyed the river trip, she realized it had lulled her into a false sense of security. She’d almost forgotten what she was here to do and now it was time to meet the archaeologist, a certain Dr Walter Guttridge.

  35.

  Diana, the Cotswolds, 1922

  Douglas stands by the gate and I see he is stooped, staring at the ground beneath his feet as if in contemplation. I walk to him and he straightens up but still avoids my eyes.

  ‘Well,’ I say. ‘This is it.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he replies, and now he looks at me.

  I glance at his beautiful eyes. They are deep dark pools of confusion. Not harsh or severe, just rather lost. I see he is holding his emotions in, and there will be no sentimental farewell. I long to embrace him, for him to enfold me in his arms and for us to recapture the way we used to be. But it cannot be. Those days are gone. He has become good at hiding and now my husband is sprung so tightly he dares not allow himself to feel.

  He grasps my hand and squeezes, then he lets go and steps back. I do what he expects me to do and I walk out of the gate wordlessly, without looking back, and without making a scene.

  It’s a glorious June day, the sky extraordinarily blue, and the sun tinting the tops of the clouds with silver and gold. I am silent at first as we begin the drive, unable to speak to Simone, but eventually I relax. We pass a riot of different greens still lacy with new life, drystone walls lining the road and far-reaching views across the Cotswolds, where fields dotted with sheep butt up against meadows in which horses nuzzle the fences. We make two stops at roadside inns to enable the car to cool down and to feed it with water and petrol. At one stop Simone encourages me to leave the car and take the air, but I remain where I am, so instead she brings me a cool lemonade and a sandwich for lunch.

  When we eventually turn off to the left, passing deep woods on both sides, and then begin the descent down the hill to the valley, where the village of Minster Lovell lies, I feel my stomach clench. But after we cross the medieval bridge over the river I am surprised: I hadn’t expected it to be so enchanting. Though narrow, and lined by enormous weeping willows, the river is flowing freely and as we turn right and away from the mill, we pass the pub on the left. Simone points out her cottage. Like several others it too is thatched, a long and narrow house of buttery Cotswold stone glowing in the sunlight, covered in wisteria and with a ditch in front of it. I notice how the ditch travels along the length of the lane to carry away rainwater and how a few of the houses are very close, in fact joined to one another. Simone catches the look on my face.

  ‘Don’t worry. Yours is detached and right on the edge of the village at the top of the hill.’

  I hadn’t noticed the gentle incline but see now that we are rising and am relieved to know I shall not be in the centre of things.

  ‘There are only two houses after yours, both around the corner, and there is plenty of land between them.’

  I’m longing to see my new home. When Simone pulls up she points to a beautiful cottage behind a drystone wall and, from what I can see, surrounded by pretty gardens.

  She gets out of the car and then comes round to my side to help me. I feel my heart beating faster but my eagerness to see inside the house overrides my initial nerves and, within minutes, Simone is unlocking the front door and ushering me inside to the hall.

  ‘I’ve arranged the furniture as I thought you’d like it and the curtains have been hung, but of course you must change anything you don’t like. I shan’t be offended.’

  I smile at her, grateful for everything she has done.

  She shows me around the house and I have to remind myself it is mine and not hers. Up the narrow staircase, and off a tiny landing, there are three bedrooms and a bathroom. Two bedrooms overlook the road, but with a generous front garden that hardly matters. My bedroom, she says, is at the back, and when I step inside it I steer over to one of the two windows. From my vantage point I can see a well-stocked and well-maintained garden leading to dense woods beyond.

  I spin round in gratitude. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I knew you’d like it. When I came back from Burma after Roger died I needed to find peace and looked everywhere.’

  ‘You found it.’

  ‘But only when I came to Minster Lovell.’

  ‘I love it. Really I do.’

  ‘It’s a special place. I always s
ay the tranquillity here mended my broken heart.’

  I reach out a hand to her and she squeezes it.

  ‘I had your trunk brought up here. And, when I stay over, my room is one of the two at the front.’

  We go back down and explore a sweet drawing room with a large fireplace, a cosy snug with a smaller fireplace, a dining room and a small kitchen with a pantry leading off it.

  ‘When you are ready,’ she says, ‘I will take you to the doctor’s house. You turn right just up from this house and go downhill towards the church. You only pass one house set well back from the lane and then his is on the right at the bottom.’

  ‘I thought he would come to me.’

  ‘If you prefer, I’m sure he will.’

  I nod, feeling relieved.

  ‘Mrs Jones from the village comes to cook and clean every morning. I’ve explained you’ve been ill and need peace and quiet, and as she’s a sensible woman I don’t feel she will be intrusive. She’ll shop for provisions too and Norridge & Son take care of local deliveries in their specially built Ford T van. It’s really comical actually, looks like a rectangular box on wheels.’

  I shiver, suddenly cold. Although it’s June, the late afternoon and evenings can still be chilly.

  ‘All we have to do is light the fire,’ Simone says reassuringly. ‘Mrs Jones has set one here in the snug, but also in the drawing room and your bedroom. And she’s made us a pea and ham soup for supper. For now, what about your cashmere wrap to warm you up? Didn’t you bring it?’

  ‘I left it behind. Annabelle might be glad of it one day and I want her to have something of me.’

  I try hard not to cry at the thought of Annabelle.

  ‘I need to go back to mine to collect my night things,’ Simone says and touches my hand. ‘Will you be all right? I can do it later, if you prefer?’