Separation, The (21 page)

He rubbed her hands to warm them. ‘Come on now, Lyd,’ he said. ‘There’s nowt we can do for Jack.’

She felt Jack’s loss physically, as if a kick in the guts had knocked
the stuffing from her. She flinched at Bert’s touch and folded over, her throat burning with grief. One arm tight across her midriff, she held herself together. When he led her to his car, she turned towards him, but for a moment couldn’t look him in the face.

‘We were on our way to see you,’ she mumbled.

Bert looked puzzled.

She straightened up and stood in front of him with angry eyes. ‘You called Jack. Told him someone had found Maz. You must remember. You called him. Said to go to the village.’

‘No.’

She clutched his shirt and shouted. ‘You must remember.’

He gently removed her hands, then held her by the shoulders.

‘Lydia, I never called Jack.’

The sound of the shot echoed in her head. He was wrong. He must be wrong.

‘There’s nothing we can do,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid Jack’s been a victim of some kind of trap. I’m so sorry.’

Her legs were trembling so much she felt they might buckle, but Bert’s words clinched it. She slowly shook her head. He was wrong; there
was
something she could do. She’d find out who had betrayed Jack, work out who’d really phoned him. Find out who knew he’d be on the road without police protection, whatever it took. And she’d start by finding Lili.

She turned her back when the other two constables walked over to Jack, couldn’t bear to see their struggle as they lifted his stiff body, or see them shake their heads at yet another waste of life.

The funeral took place the next day. The cloudburst had blown over, and it was a hot blue day. There were few formalities, as you couldn’t delay in the sweltering Malayan heat. A small group, eyes turned from the hole in the ground, gave each other uncertain smiles. Holding a wilting bunch of yellow canna lilies, she nodded at Bert and another officer, at one or two mates
of Jack’s she didn’t know, Jack’s boss, Jim, and a beautiful Chinese woman, who scattered rose petals on the ground. The woman didn’t speak to anyone, but muttered to herself, her eyes expressionless.

They held a short service outside. The grass, damp from the recent rain, shone in the sunlight, and wind lifted particles of earth from around the grave. How cruelly life goes on, she thought, and stared at the ground as Jim read out a poem.

It was fitting. Jack believed in the natural world, not God, nor an afterlife in heaven or hell. ‘Hell’s this bloody place,’ he’d say with a groan.

The coffin was lowered into the ground. She’d chosen a decorated one, and paid for it with a little of the money Jack had hidden under the floorboards, though he’d have called it a waste. The rest of the money she’d use to live on until it ran out. She thought of his words when he’d shown it to her. In case you need it, he’d said. There was a snapping, crashing sound from the depths of the trees, then, just for a moment, as if suddenly suspended, the world stilled. She felt a dull ache behind her eyes as she crumpled some dry earth from the plantation garden on top of the coffin and tossed the lilies on top. Right beside her feet, displaced by the grave, a nest of ants was swarming. Motionless, she smelt the earth and the lilies, shocked by the sight of the coffin, and frozen into silence by thoughts of the place where his living heart used to be. Then she took a deep breath and listened
as the noises of the jungle came back: the rattles and thumps, the hum, the buzz.

Bert gently led her to where someone had brought chilli chicken drumsticks and honeyed dates, which they ate with their fingers, sitting cross-legged on the ground. After the priest left, they drank gin from the bottle and each in turn remembered Jack. The gravediggers came to fill in the grave, so they retreated further into the shade of the trees to watch. In the distance a lone dog barked. A sad, forlorn sound. When the light started to dim, someone produced a small lantern and Lydia gazed at orange moths hovering in its light, a gentle breeze cooling the air.

After a while Bert turned to her. ‘Better be off. Is Jim taking you back with him?’

‘He’s taking me to Jack’s to pick up my things, then tomorrow I’m heading south.’

‘You okay for cash?’

She nodded, and over his shoulders, in between the trees, saw a figure move. For a moment her heart filled with a raw, angry feeling. ‘Wasn’t that Lili?’ she said.

‘Sorry, didn’t see. By the way, do you know where Jack’s other gun is? We couldn’t account for it.’

‘I gave it to Jim,’ she said.

Just as he was getting into his car, she remembered the Chinese woman who hadn’t joined them for the graveside booze-up. Flushed from the gin, she asked Bert about her.

He turned his palms up and shrugged. ‘Old flame of Jack’s, I should think. Does it matter now?’

She shook her head. Nothing mattered now.

Fragments of sound came on the breeze, the drone of insects, a car engine revving, the moans of the jungle. For a moment the world glistened in the long low light. She thought of Jack’s large shadow and their once secret laughter. So long ago and before all this. She thought of his back, his strong shoulders, and how she’d curled herself to him, so deeply loved it was as if they were
breathing one another. Her heart raced, almost tripping itself up, as she turned round to look at the mound of earth that covered him. ‘Goodbye, my love,’ she whispered, no longer holding back her tears. ‘Forgive me.’

Worn out words, but all she could manage.

I avoided the homework monitor and stared at the file. It was thick and I hardly dared peek inside the sepia cover. Nosy people find out things they’d rather not know. That’s what Gran always said. In any case, it was probably the local authority paying, so that wouldn’t be a surprise, but a thought flashed in my mind. Was there a chance it might be Veronica? The door swung open.

Susan sprang across the room with a wide grin. ‘How did you get away?’

‘I jumped.’

‘Crikey!’ She gave me a dig in the ribs. ‘You haven’t opened it yet, have you?’

I shook my head.

She grinned. ‘Give it here.’

I passed it over and looked on as she flipped open the front cover, scanned the first page, flicked on a bit, then stopped, her smile fading. She covered her mouth with her hand.

‘What?’

Without a word she closed the file and passed it back to me.

The front pages gave name, address, age, parents’ details. The next page stopped me. I glanced up at Susan, then flicked through, as page followed page. Notes from teachers. Copies of letters sent to my father describing my academic progress, and complaining of only a few minor incidents of disobedience. They said that while there was still some room for improvement in attitude, I was generally doing well, and that it was time I went home, because they’d done all they could. They recommended I’d do better now in my home environment.

‘But he told me they said I wasn’t ready,’ I blurted out.

Susan’s nostrils flared. ‘That’s mean.’

I turned another page, and there a letter from my father explained that my mother was missing. But not to say anything to me. He’d decide when the time was right. Better I stayed at boarding school, for stability.

I gulped. ‘If I hadn’t overheard, was he ever going to tell me?’

Susan patted my back.

‘Dad wants to make space for Veronica. That’s why he wants me to stay here.’

I hated the thought of that and stood up, pressing my cheek against the dormitory wall to feel the coolness. ‘And he wants Gran to go into an old people’s home.’

The idea of Gran away from the house she had lived in for so long was too sad. And she wasn’t that bad. I saw Veronica’s glowing white face. Perhaps she really was behind it, giving Dad the money for my school, quietly urging him to get rid of Gran.

‘Dad wants to make space,’ I said again.

‘What?’

My mouth twisted. I’d spoken quietly, almost to myself, forgetting Susan. ‘He only wants Veronica and Fleur. He’s getting rid of everybody else.’

‘Do you really think so?’ Susan said.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Can you see any bills?’

‘Not yet.’

I was puzzled. If Gran was right, my father couldn’t afford the fees. But if the local authority was paying, wouldn’t they cough up only for as long as was necessary.

Susan looked curious. ‘Come on, Em. Let’s see what else there is.’ She took the folder and flipped over a few more pages, then stared at the ones at the back.

‘What?’

She put the folder into my hands. Her voice faltered. ‘Em, they’re all from some solicitor.’

I flicked through a series of letters stapled to the bills. Term by
term, all said the same thing.
Please find the enclosed cheque, covering the payment of fees for Miss Emma Cartwright, on behalf of our client.
All of them sent by a Mr N. Johnson, of Johnson, Price & Co. of Kidderminster.

‘I don’t understand. Who’s the client?’

‘It doesn’t say.’

‘What if I write to the solicitor?’

‘They won’t say. If the name’s not there, it’ll be confidential.’

We sat on the bed in the few remaining moments of silence, until the dorm doors flew open at the other end of the room, and girls began to file in. As soon as they did, Susan put herself in front of me, legs planted wide apart.

‘Hey what happened to you two?’ one of them said. Some of the others made jokey comments, but then with a snort of annoyance, Rebecca said, ‘You sneaky devils. How did you get up here early? You’re up to something, aren’t you?’

I felt myself turn red, glad I’d slipped the file beneath the covers of my bed, and hoping no one had seen.

The station air smelt strongly of metal and sweat, the noise of people, trains and traders overpowering. Despite that, Lydia felt her resolve stiffen, and with some difficulty tracked down a call box. She dialled Cicely’s number, took a sharp breath when her friend answered, and kept her voice level. For a moment Cicely’s cool, offhand voice almost derailed her, but she pressed the receiver against her cheek, took another breath and came out with it.

‘I have nowhere to go.’

She heard Cicely’s sharp breath in. ‘So it’s true. Where are you now?’

‘Here. At the station.’

‘Stay right there.’

Lydia wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead, thankful that Jack, with uncanny prescience, had shown her the hoard of money he’d kept under the floorboard. She still needed to get a job, but there was enough to keep her afloat for a few months. And at least she’d made it south in one piece. This time, the journey had not involved ambushes, derailing, or diversions: everything had been surprisingly normal. So much so that she had to pinch herself, as a reminder that Jack and the girls were gone, and she wasn’t simply travelling back home to Alec.

Lydia was sipping an iced lemon by the time Cicely arrived, looking crisp and smart. She brushed cool lips over Lydia’s cheek. ‘You can tell me all about it on the way.’

Cicely threw open the door to her town house and looked about. It was a wonderful old merchant’s house, in a well-heeled part of town.

‘Good. No sign of Ralph. Men never know what’s really going on. Darling, you look a fright. I think a bath for you and then something to eat.’

‘I always thought men were the ones who
did
know what was going on,’ Lydia said.

Cicely laughed and waggled a pointed finger at her. ‘You have a lot to learn, my girl.’

They walked across the quiet hall.

Cicely reached over and took Lydia’s hand. ‘Darling. You already know how sorry I am about Emma and Fleur. But now Jack too. It must have been utterly ghastly, but at least he died like he lived.’

Lydia’s stomach turned over. ‘Someone tricked him on to the road that afternoon.’

Cicely stared. ‘Any idea who?’

Lili’s face flashed in her mind, but Lydia chose just to shrug. ‘Also a little boy I was looking after vanished. I need to make sure he’s safe.’ She leant back against the wall. ‘Harriet Parrott might be the place to start. You know, with George’s contacts. Would you help me?’

‘I’ll ring and tell her you’ll be there tomorrow at twelve sharp. Now you stay with me as long as you need. Okay?’ A wide smile lit Cicely’s face. ‘That’s what friends are for, after all.’

Lydia followed her to the exquisite guest suite on the top floor.

‘Will this suit you, madam?’ Cicely said. ‘No need to come down. I’ll have food sent up.’

After Cicely left, Lydia dropped her bag, and looked out at the distant Straits of Malacca. Rain blurred the view, blending the colours in watery blues and lilacs. She felt her shoulders relax, hadn’t realised how tense they’d been. Her room overlooked a courtyard garden, a water garden with giant lily pads and a fountain. She wandered round the guest suite. Decorated in pale pink and gold, it couldn’t have been further from Jack’s place. Here she had a bedroom, a bathroom, and her own sitting room. And right now a sanctuary was what she needed.

Whenever thoughts of Jack’s murder threatened to defeat her, she was learning to place a palm over her heart and take deep breaths. It calmed her, and gradually the thumping rush of panic would fade. Then, to stop herself from becoming dead inside, and although it made her cry, she’d think of the good times, and the love they’d shared. Anything to resist the image of his dead body as it lay on the tarmac. To think about that would finish her.

She was woken by a vast, sun-bleached sky, not revealing any hint of an oncoming downpour, just the kind of day she liked best.

In the bathroom she shrank from a startling, well-lit mirror. Painted lilies curled the corners and lean palms stretched up the sides. Indian she thought. Her shoulders sagged at the sight of the full-length reflection of her skinny self, with sore puffy eyes and blotchy skin. Remembering the nascent feeling of hope for the future – her pretty skirt, the lipstick – just before Jack was shot, she winced, and threw her treasured bottle of Shalimar in the bin. The scent was too painful now. She splashed her face with cold water and ran her fingers through damp hair. There was a clack of high heels on the floor outside her room, and Cicely entered, trailing a whiff of Chanel No. 5, and carrying a silver-inlaid ebony tray.

Lydia strode into the room completely naked and stretched her arms out wide. ‘Look at me. Just look!’

‘Hideous, I know.’ Cicely laughed. ‘There’s plenty we can do about that. I’ve made an appointment for you. The hairdresser at eight and then we’re going shopping, but first we need to make a plan.’ She plumped herself down on a pale chintz sofa in the window and patted the cushion beside her.

‘I was thinking of Jack.’

Cicely pulled a face. ‘I know darling. It was rotten luck.’ She pointed across the room. ‘There’s a gown you can use over there.’

Lydia paused to put it on. Silk, of course. ‘He asked me to
marry him, you know.’ She felt a tightening in her throat, as if she might choke on tears that were never far.

Cool as a cucumber, dressed in an ice blue suit and flaunting what looked like an emerald necklace, Cicely shook her head. ‘Darling, you have to forget Jack now.’

Lydia sighed, sweat forming at her hairline. ‘That is a great deal easier said than done.’

‘The best way is to think about other things, make plans. If you don’t, the despair will drag you down.’

There was a pause.

‘What’s your secret?’ Lydia said, to change the subject. ‘You don’t suffer in this climate.’

‘Water. I shower a lot,’ Cicely said and laughed.

‘I’ll never get used to heat like this, water or not.’

She thought of the pool. The fun she’d had with Jack and Maz. The wonderful cool of the water on a boiling day, such a brilliant way to cope with the heat. Then the man she’d met on the train popped into her mind. Adil. She remembered their journey together, so long ago. The blood rushed to her cheeks. That had been before everything went so terribly wrong. Before Emma and Fleur. Before Jack.

‘Penny for them?’ Cicely said.

Lydia wasn’t sure why, but found she didn’t really want to reveal her innermost thoughts to Cecily. ‘Oh, nothing really,’ she said. ‘Just remembering things. I met someone else who always managed to stay cool. Like you.’

‘Who? I thought I was the only ice queen in Malaya.’

‘A man, not a woman. He was called Adil. I met him going upcountry. Didn’t know what to make of him at first.’

There was a flicker of something in Cicely’s face. ‘Ice-king, then?’

‘He saved a woman’s life. On the train. It stuck with me.’

Cicely stroked her emerald necklace. ‘Sounds like a decent type. Native, of course. With a name like that.’

Lydia nodded. ‘She was going to jump. He reached out and
pulled her back in. And he was kind to me. For no reason. Just kind.’

‘Why was he going north?’

‘Something to see to, he said –’

‘Do you like this?’ Cicely interrupted, patting the necklace. ‘Isn’t it gorgeous? Ralph gave it to me last night. Guilt money.’

‘He’s unfaithful?’

Cicely shrugged. ‘Constantly. Chinese girls.’

Jack’s relationship with Lili came to mind. ‘More than once?’

‘Are you calling me a liar, darling?’

Lydia shook her head. ‘How do you bear it?’

‘Don’t be so damned earnest, sweetheart. It happens all the time and I give as good as I get.’

Lydia recalled Alec gossiping about Cicely’s bedroom exploits, a scornful look in his eyes.

‘At least, with Ralph it’s girls. Unlike those in high places. Keep it under your hat, but it’s Harriet I feel sorry for.’

Lydia’s mouth fell open.

‘Come on, Lyddy. Everything’s for sale in this damned country. Especially now we’re on our way out.’

‘End of an era?’

‘More like end of the empire, darling.’ Cicely rolled her eyes and laughed.

Lydia studied Cicely’s chiselled cheekbones, her painted lips, the sleek blonde hair. Did nothing get to her?

‘Alec may have been many things, but at least he wasn’t like Ralph and George,’ she said.

‘Alec wasn’t a saint.’ Cicely brushed a speck of dust from her skirt, and, with a flicker of amusement, stared at Lydia.

Lydia’s mouth fell open. ‘You’re saying he tried it on?’

Cicely nodded.

‘With you?’

Cicely snorted. ‘Who else?’

Lydia attempted to laugh it off, but, thrown off balance, she got up, opened the French windows, then stepped on to a
balcony bordered by pretty iron railings. A mass of noise rose up from the street: bicycle bells, the roar of traffic, the myriad sound of human voices. Chinese, Malay, Indian.

‘You’re a hopeless romantic, Lydia Cartwright. Now what’s next? That’s the big question. Have you a photo of the boy?’

Lydia shook her head.

‘Well, shut the window and come here. Haven’t we got a campaign to plan? I’ll phone Harriet right away. And remember, sweetie, if you need money, you’ve only got to ask.’

Lydia nodded. ‘Thank you. I’ll have to get a job eventually, but for now I’ve got enough to get by.’

She noticed Cicely was watching her.

‘I didn’t … you know. With Alec.’

But whatever Cicely might say, Lydia wondered if the offer of money was prompted by guilt, and felt quite shaken that she’d never even had a clue.