‘I learnt how to make vegetable curry,’ she said, speaking too brightly.
Jack nodded, his eyes closed.
‘You’re tired. Let’s have a good long sleep after lunch?’ She touched him lightly on the arm.
‘Tell you what,’ he said, opening his eyes. ‘Let’s go swimming this evening.’
She tipped her head to one side and smiled. This was something new.
There were so many tangled paths through the trees, and as she and Maz followed Jack to the pool, she realised she’d never find it on her own, though Maz would. Once Maz travelled a path, he always found it again. She wondered if he did it by counting trees, or was it just something males did better?
When she glimpsed the glitter of water through the trees, she saw it ran from a source higher up, was piped down, and then out through a wooden spout into a deepish pool, screened by trees and giant ferns. Curtains of orange and purple butterflies hung in the air, and the water reflected a million shades of green. In the translucent pool, a few dark shapes lay at the bottom and at the edge of the water. Jack saw her look doubtful.
‘Don’t worry. They’re only soft-shelled water turtles. They don’t bite.’ He removed his clothes, and jumped in, stark naked.
‘Come on,’ he called.
Maz was next and flew into the water with a piercing shriek.
‘Come on, Lyd,’ Jack shouted. ‘What you waiting for?’
She hesitated, then threw off her sweaty clothing and slipped in too, hair flowing out behind her.
‘Gracious!’ she yelled, splashing Jack, who ducked her under. Maz shook with laughter, jumped up and down in the water, and pointed at them both, a stream of rapid Malay firing out.
‘This is fantastic, isn’t it?’ Jack shouted, showing off his physical prowess by turning somersaults in the water.
Limbs and hands flapped and floundered as they tussled. She slipped and lost her footing. He kissed her lightly on the forehead when she came up for air, swam round, then pulled her back by the hair. She fell into his arms and Maz swam round in circles, squealing and splashing, chasing butterflies. It was a physical release, the chill of the water cooling their burning skin.
This is the nearest thing to peace, she thought, and spluttered as she went under again. Maz giggled, and chased trails of bubbles, as Jack ducked her mercilessly, touching her breasts under the water, where Maz couldn’t see.
Afterwards they climbed out, shouting to each other, shaking water from their hair and blinking it from their eyelashes. They sat, back to back, in a little clearing by the side of the pool and Jack lit a cigarette. She couldn’t remember when he’d started smoking again.
She thought of the shining waters of her family’s old uninhabited island holidays, the turquoise seas, the dolphins and the palm-fringed shore. She closed her eyes for a moment to enjoy the tranquillity, but had a funny feeling she was being watched. She suspected monkeys, but when a long tongue went shooting past Jack’s left shoulder, he yelled and leapt in the air. She turned to see a flash of slit nostrils and a lumbering pale-coloured creature. Maz rolled over, white teeth gleaming, laughing and clutching his sides until he cried.
‘It’s biawak,’ he said. ‘A biawak.’
Hearing Maz, the water monitor slipped away into the pool.
‘I never saw you move so fast,’ she teased.
Jack pulled a face. ‘Yes. Very funny I’m sure.’
The drizzle had gone and dappled light fell on Jack’s face. He let Maz go ahead, holding Lydia back by her elbow. Way out in front, they heard Maz sing a throaty Malay song, the green of the evening turned pink, and suddenly the air was filled with hundreds of tiny black and white butterflies, floating like fragments of rice paper tissue.
‘It’s going to be okay, you know.’ He held out his arms to her and they stood under the great canopy of trees, hugging and rocking as river frogs croaked round them.
23
My homecomings were never easy, but this would be much harder than usual. Because of Mum, and because I’d been ill, they allowed me time off, and in my relief at getting away from Penridge Hall, I’d almost forgotten my sister. But then, remembering how we used to stop at the shop in Malacca that sold mirrors and feathers, and drums and flutes, I cried. I pictured Mummy, and Fleur and me, as we bought crepe paper, and made wings of wire. Mum let us wear party dresses, and we danced like fairies for Daddy. Though I soon got bored of that, and went to hide under the house to spy on Amah. Now that nothing would ever be the same again, I wanted those days back, and it felt like the whole world had ended.
Gran met us at the door and squeezed me so tight I couldn’t breathe. She had broken veins in her cheeks, and was more round shouldered than before. Behind her, I saw Fleur hang back with a cautious smile, her eyes framed by new, pink, plastic-rimmed glasses. Gran wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and let me go. Fleur hugged me limply. She had her own room and I was to go in with Gran.
‘Since your grandfather passed I have no use for the other bed,’ Gran said, with a sad look at the place where Granddad used to sleep. ‘Your dad moved it to the window. It’s yours now, duck.’
I frowned. ‘But I thought he was buying our own house.’
‘Things aren’t going so well for your father just now. Money’s tight.’
‘If I came home for good, he wouldn’t have to pay my school fees.’
‘Oh no, dear. Your dad’s not … ’
‘Not what, Gran?’
She covered her mouth with her hand, and stood abruptly.
‘Dear me. Here I am chatting on, and still with the lunch to see to.’
‘But Gran?’
‘My memory is something awful these days. The long and the short of it is, I had to go for a test last week.’
‘How did you get on?’
She poked me in the ribs and laughed. ‘No worries, my duck. I passed with knobs on. Doesn’t everybody know that Winston Churchill’s the prime minister.’
Trouble is, I don’t know if she was joking and knew it was Anthony Eden, or if she really thought it was Winston Churchill. I didn’t like to ask. She remembered enough to say that Veronica and my father were seeing a lot of each other.
‘I think it might be more than a flash in the pan,’ she said.
I hung my head.
‘I’m so sorry, love. About your mum.’
I didn’t know what to say, just muttered, and she patted my back and said, ‘There, there. Why don’t you brush your hair and tidy up and I’ll make you a lovely gooseberry jam sandwich.’
Fleur had Dad and now Veronica, and could be bought with liquorice allsorts. But I needed my mother, and felt ashamed by the flash of anger I felt towards her. It wasn’t fair. How could she have abandoned us? How could she be dead?
I went through the act of brushing my hair, dragging the bristles through. In Malaya I had complained once that I didn’t think brushing made much difference. ‘Nevertheless,’ Mum said in a sharp voice, and she took the brush and roughly pulled it through my hair. It was the day of the wedding, the same day we had the accident, and she’d been in a funny mood.
Fleur had watched, mouth open. ‘What about mine?’
‘Yours is easy,’ Mum said. And with one or two strokes with a fine comb, Fleur’s hair was tidy, a neat parting on the right, and a clip in the shape of a bow on the left.
‘Can I have a clip too?’ I asked.
‘No use putting a clip in your hair, Em. We’d never find it again. And for goodness sake stop lolling about.’ She laughed and I felt stupidly hurt.
I can’t bear it, I thought, my mind burning up with questions that went round and round. What’s actually happened to Mum? Doesn’t anybody know? I decided to ask Fleur if she’d heard anything, so went to her room and stood inside the door. She was sitting on her bed colouring in a map of Great Britain, putting a frill of blue round the edge to show it was sea.
‘The sea’s not like that, Mealy,’ I said, thinking of the way the sky
fell into an indigo ocean at night.
She looked up coolly. ‘Don’t call me that. It’s babyish. And go away. I’m busy. This has got to be done by open day.’
‘Did you miss me?’
‘A bit,’ she said.
I hung about, but apart from some loud obvious sighs, she ignored me. I left the room. No point asking her. I wasn’t even sure if she’d tell me. Could it be that sisters were as likely to mistrust each other as anyone else? It made me sad to think like that, but I wanted a sister more like me, who’d talk and tell me it’d be okay, and that Mummy was not dead. Not dead at all. Or at the very least would know how it had happened.
I didn’t have to wait long for a chance to see if I could find out more. Gran and Dad were down at the primary school with Fleur. It was a bright afternoon for an open day, with cakes and teas, so I knew I’d have enough time.
Dad’s room wasn’t locked, but like a good spy, I made sure I heard their voices disappear as they went off down the road.
The furniture in there was: one dark walnut wardrobe, a matching dressing table and chair, a double bed and two bedside tables. A band of sunlight fell across the floor showing up the threadbare patches in the carpet. I looked in the bedside tables. Only job application forms and letters of refusal there. That’s what Gran means about things not going so well, I thought, and turned to the wardrobe. Suits, shirts, a coat, black and tan shoes lined up in military order, cardboard boxes piled on top. I dragged the chair over and climbed up. All sealed. That left under the mattress, and the dressing table.
The mattress was lumpy and heavy to lift, but as I slid my hand under I could tell there was nothing there. I pulled open the first drawer of the dressing table. Shoe cleaning stuff tumbled on to the floor: a cloth, two brushes, one soft, one hard, a spray and four pots of different coloured polish. Dad kept everything tickety-boo, as he would say. I pulled a face, realising I didn’t know the order he kept things in, so crossed my fingers and put it all back as I thought he might. Now for the bottom drawer. It must be there. Only if I saw it with my own eyes would I believe it. I scoured the contents: a calendar, an address book, a bottle of fake tan lotion, and, at the bottom, a book. With a grin I turned the bottle of tan over. My dad liked to have a tan. I lifted out the book: A Gardener’s Year was the title. Must be one of Granddad’s. Dad didn’t garden. As I flicked through, a thin blue airmail envelope slipped to the floor. I hesitated, then picked it up, turned it over, and saw a Malayan postmark. I lifted the flap and opened out the letter. My heart nearly stopped. There was no address, but the date on the envelope showed it had been posted over a year ago, before I stuck the dart in Mr Oliver’s neck. This had to be the letter I’d thought was from Mum way back then.
Dear Alec,
All taken care of. Nothing to worry about this end. I trust we’re quits now, old boy.
Yours,
George.
I’d been holding my breath and let it out slowly. What did this mean? Nothing about what had been taken care of. This was strange. Was this about my mother? Or was this nothing to do with her at all? There was no other letter telling Dad that she was missing, presumed dead, nor that she’d abandoned us. I must have sat there for an hour, thinking and driving myself mad, imagining the worst. My mind kept going back to the waxwork tunnel, at the museum in Malacca. Had somebody shrivelled my mother’s head? Every time I thought of that, I wanted to die, and almost missed the sound of them chatting as they came up the path.
‘Well, she’s doing very well, isn’t she?’ I heard Gran say. ‘She’ll do well at big school, when the time comes.’
My heart gave a thump. I slipped the letter back in the book, put it into the drawer, and tiptoed out of Dad’s room to my bed, where I sat with my arms folded across my stomach.
Later on in the kitchen, fighting to control my voice, I asked Father if I could see Mother’s death certificate. He turned stern eyes on me. ‘There isn’t one. She is presumed dead, Emma.’
‘Then how do you know?’ I said, a spark of hope returning.
‘Because we were told.’
‘But by who?’
‘Whom, Emma.’
‘By whom?’
Dad got up to leave. ‘George Parrott had the details.’
I doggedly followed him outside. ‘Write to him. Ask him.’
‘Emma, I do not take my orders from you. George Parrott has informed me and that’s an end to it. Now, I’m busy.’
I didn’t let myself weaken and ignored the irritation in his eyes. ‘When did he write? Show me the letter!’
He took a sharp breath and I noticed him struggle with himself. Then he smiled as if to say: what a silly girl, making a fuss. It was a smile meant to make me feel foolish.
‘Now then, Emma. Have I got this right? Don’t you believe what your father is telling you?’
I knew I was digging a hole for myself but couldn’t help it. ‘I just want you to write to him. What’s wrong with that?’
‘I received the letter a month ago. Now, young lady, if you know what’s good for you, not another word.’ He turned his back on me and shut the shed door.
Was my dad lying to me? There had been no sign of a letter like that in his room, nothing from George Parrott about Mum being presumed dead. Though I suppose if one had arrived, Dad could have just thrown it away. Would he have done that though? I wasn’t very happy and I felt as if I’d had no questions answered at all.
I went upstairs, sat on my bed again and opened the notebook I hid under my pillow so Gran didn’t see. Sometimes I felt the world was too unfair, so when things got really bad I wrote stories. I loved the way you could make up anything you wanted. Whatever else, I would be a writer when I grew up. When I imagined stories in my head, I could pretend to be anyone I wanted to be.
I lost myself in a tale about grey-eyed statues that came to life and used their stony hands to throttle people. One of them was just about to get Dad when I heard him come back in. Veronica was there and they were talking. I overheard him say Gran needed to go into an old people’s home, and that the local authority would be offering a place before too long. When Veronica came up to say hello I was almost crying. She came across, put an arm round my shoulder and stroked my cheek. I moved away.
‘How are you getting on at boarding school?’
‘Okay,’ I sniffed.
‘No promises, but if you make a really good effort, I think there’s a chance your father might let you come back to live at home.’
I glared at her. ‘He said school told him I wasn’t ready.’
‘I know, but things can change … I’m so sorry, Emma. I can never replace your mother, but if you let me I’ll do my best.’
I didn’t trust myself to speak.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘I’ll pick you up from school one day and we’ll have a whole day out in Cheltenham. The works. Tea at the Oriental Café on the Promenade, a picture at the Gaumont. What do you say?’
I thought about it. Did this mean she was on my side? Or did it mean she really was trying to take Mum’s place, and only pretending she wasn’t?
‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘I haven’t forgotten what it’s like to be young you know.’
I glanced at her pale powdery cheek, frosted pink nails, tight pin curls, and wondered if that was true. It must take ages to get those curls so exact I thought, and ran my fingers through my own unruly hair. Still red, still wild.
‘Tell you what. I’ll show you my old school if you like. Wellington College for Girls in Pittville Circus. Oh my gosh, we had so much fun hiding in the warren of corridors there. I remember it had a battery of tall windows staring out on to the street. Thirteen altogether. Or was it fourteen? We used to love those front classrooms the best.’
She smiled, kissed me on the forehead with cool lips and winked. ‘And I’ll show you where we used to hang around for the boys at the Grammar School.’
When she left I went to the window and flung
it wide open, then rubbed the lipstick off my forehead. Outside the world shone in the evening light, the trees, the church spire, even the field, but inside I felt strange and uncertain. If I were to be friends with Veronica, did that mean I’d be betraying my mum?
24
On their way back from the pool some weeks later, Jack encouraged Maz to run on, while he slowed down. The sky was golden and the air smelt sweet. For once you could forget the blanket of flies that lay over the stinking swamps, and the thorns as big as butcher’s hooks waiting to tear your flesh. Lydia felt a new kind of peace. She loved the heat after the cold of the pool, and the burning sensuality. Loved the touch of Jack’s body as they picked their way along the track.
He stopped and cupped her face in his hands, before kissing her forehead and then her lips.
‘The child,’ she said.
‘He can’t see. Probably at the house by now.’
She let him kiss her again, and they walked slowly on, holding hands.
As they reached the house, Maz flew out with overbright eyes. ‘Channa let me in,’ he said. A stream of words poured from him as he jumped up and down.
Jack laughed. ‘What’s the matter, Maz? Ants in your pants?’
Lydia caught him in her arms and Maz pointed at the back door.
‘Wait here,’ Jack said. ‘Probably nothing, but just in case.’
She pulled Maz to her. The words stopped. He made little sniffing sounds instead and buried his face in her skirt. When a bird screeched in a nearby tree, she jumped.
Jack came out again. ‘You’d better come and see.’
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