Lady Seymour carried on as if she had just handed me a receipt for flour.
‘It was Curtis who, years later while working in the Colonial Service in London, discovered what had become of her. You see, she had access to my work papers, or rather there had been no reason to prevent her seeing them, so she was well acquainted with the Gosling scheme. Indeed, she had admitted some of the applicants who came here. It seems that she forged one of the invitations, intended for another girl, and sent it to herself. Thus five months later she turned up in Weeping Cross and presented herself for her confinement. Part of the arrangement was that the girls would be given a new life in the Colonies, to deter them from trying to make contact with their forsaken children. For someone in her position it made sense: she could assure a good home for her son and avoid destitution herself. It transpired that she had passage on the SS Rajah Brooke, bound for Fremantle. The ship foundered in a typhoon off the coast of Java, with the loss of all on board. So naturally we thought that was an end of the matter.’ She paused again, and slightly narrowed her eyes again. The silence extended awkwardly, Her Ladyship lost in thought.
‘Did she … did you ever find out who—’ I said.
‘The father?’ My question snapped her out of her reverie. ‘The stable lad. He disappeared soon after, too. Lied about his age and joined up. One of the first to go. He fell in Flanders in November. Curtis was devastated. Despite the difference in status, they had grown up together, like brothers. We don’t know if the lad even knew about Millie’s condition. It was my husband, Chester, who discovered they had been … carrying on.’
‘Your letter said … permitted me to hope … that there was news of her?’
‘As I said, we were given to understand no one survived the sinking of the Rajah Brooke, but recently Curtis discovered something that suggested this wasn’t the case.
‘In 1940 he was posted to Singapore in the Colonial Service, and later took up a position with a private firm responsible for turning Malayan tin into those frightful badges, the ones you send off to Robertson’s Jam for.’
‘Golliwogs, they’re called golliwogs.’
‘Quite. Then sometime last year, around September I think, he wrote to me about a small article he’d seen in the Straits Times describing an unusual item that had washed up on a beach in the East Malayan province of Sarawak. It was a bottle containing some pages from a screenplay. It told the story of an infamous rogue called Captain Squideye, who had bought a white woman at a slave auction in Macassar. The woman, it transpired, was a young English girl called Millie who had survived the shipwreck of the SS Rajah Brooke. There could have been two Millies aboard, of course, but Curtis became convinced that this girl was your mother.’
For a moment I stared at her, thunderstruck, and then aware that I should say something said simply, ‘I have really no idea how to respond to this revelation.’
She nodded. ‘Of course. Of course. I don’t blame you.’ She stared once more into space, the place where the past is located. ‘Curtis immediately booked a berth on the mail packet to Kuching. On the ship he met an American called Sam Flamenco, and they became friends. Mr Flamenco was a Hollywood film producer, or at least had been in his early years – I got the impression that he was very much in the twilight of his career. It turned out that he too had heard about this screenplay and was keen to make a film out of it.
‘You might expect two men bent on the same prize to fall out, but that didn’t happen. Instead they became friends. In Kuching the screenplay had found a home in the town museum. The curator told them that it was only a fragment, but other fragments had been washed up in bottles on various beaches on the eastern shores of Borneo. The bottles had originally been in the possession of a collector of antiquities in Shanghai, who fled China during the war in his own boat. The ship was torpedoed by a Japanese submarine in 1944, somewhere off the coast of Borneo, but in 1945 a big storm dislodged the wreck from a reef, and over the next two years all sorts of flotsam and jetsam from the ship was washed ashore on the shores of Borneo and nearby islands. Among them the bottles containing the screenplay.
‘Mr Flamenco commissioned Curtis to track down the rest of the screenplay, and in return for this service he promised to give him a part in the film he intended to shoot. To this, Curtis agreed. He hired a fisherman with excellent local knowledge as a guide, and took along a stenographer. The plan was to make two copies of each piece of the screenplay they found. One for Curtis and the other to be sent to me.
‘In December, he returned to Singapore to wind up his affairs, and in the New Year he set off on his quest. In January he sent me three fragments, and wrote to me that he had reason to believe that Millie might still be alive. I will give you the fragments shortly.
‘In February his letters began to arrive with decidedly shaky handwriting, and evidence from their contents that he was not well. Around the middle of February I received a curt letter saying simply, “I now know that which no man should know.”
‘That was the last letter. After that there was silence. I knew it had been his habit to take his lunch at the Raffles Hotel, so I telephoned the concierge, with whom I have had some dealings in the past. Curtis, he said, had become “unreliable”, which I took to mean he had suffered some sort of nervous breakdown. The concierge gave his expert opinion that it was an example of a particular malady called late-flowering Bohemianism.’
She saw the puzzled look on my face and laughed. Throughout our conversation, her face had taken on a sombre cast, but the laughter, soft though it was, revealed this to be a mask. The manner was slightly girlish, and made her eyes crinkle at the corner and glitter. It confirmed my initial impression that she had been quite an effervescent, perhaps irreverent, lady once, but the trials of life had pressed down on her over the years.
‘Late-flowering Bohemianism,’ she said. ‘That’s when a chap reaches an age in life where his adventures are over and he settles down to the more quiet demands of the bowls committee or edits the parish newsletter, or at least he should. But then some imp in his soul, unsuspected for many years, rears its head and flatters his vanity into the belief that he is twenty-five again instead of sixty-five. And that, out there in this dark and deceiving world, there is one last adventure that calls to him, one last damsel tied to a tree and in need of deliverance from a dragon. Doubtless you have encountered such types on your trains?’
‘If I understand you correctly, yes, I have encountered many such types, generally making a nuisance of themselves.’
‘I found out it had something to do with a spat on the Greens committee about emplacing guns on the fairway in anticipation of the Japanese advance, just before the Fall of Singapore.’ Her eyes narrowed as if she was trying to picture the disagreement.
‘Chaps who were there tell me the Fall of Singapore was quite a blow. The Japs were absolute beasts.’
She nodded and said softly, ‘Yes, there were massacres. Although I suspect the blow to British pride was deemed the greater tragedy. The concierge told me that Curtis had been visiting the hotel barber rather more often than was good for a man whose soul was in good health. And there had been whispers, he said, that after his visits to the barber he appeared to be wearing rouge.’
She paused and I tut-tutted.
‘I should add this was not his first nervous breakdown. He had one when he was young, shortly after the Great War. There was a boat trip, you see, for the staff. It was supposed to be a day out, a treat. Curtis had just turned twenty-one. They planned taking the boat to Puffin Rock and having a picnic there. Curtis was going too. He was looking forward to it, everybody was. There was a giant tin of Tate & Lyle syrup which some anonymous well-wisher had donated for them. But on the day before the outing he got a phone call ostensibly from the Foreign Office in London urgently requesting his presence the next day regarding an interview. So he missed the boat trip. It turned out that there was no interview and no record of anyone having called him. Then there was a terr
ible accident out at sea. The engine exploded and the boat sank. No one survived. It was a terrible thing to happen. It hit Curtis hard and he took to his bed for three months as a consequence.’
I struggled to absorb the information. ‘Is he still in Singapore?’ I asked.
‘Apparently, yes, but living in some sort of squalid situation that I was told it would not do for a respectable lady to inquire too deeply into.’
‘I see.’
‘I want you to go and find Curtis. It seems to me that in so doing you will uncover the fate of your mother. Curtis wrote he had reason to believe she still lived, and that he had a good idea where she might be. I hope this does not appear like a mercenary proposal to you. It is true that I am most anxious about the disappearance of my son, but the fate of your mother has haunted me over the years. It was a terrible injustice that was done to her. My health is not good and my doctor has been candid enough to advise me that I will be lucky to see the year out. If I could make some sort of restitution to Millie it would be …’ She searched for the right word and seemingly unable to find it said simply, ‘Well, you can imagine. So, Mr Wenlock, what do you say?’
I stood transfixed. ‘Lady Seymour, I … I have not the slightest idea what to say. Is it even possible that—’
‘If you are worried about money, you will of course be well provided for. I propose to give you five thousand pounds. If you are sensible you should go far on that, certainly if you manage to stay out of the clutches of …’ She paused. ‘You are aware that Room Forty-Two are looking for you?’
‘Yes.’
‘It seems the information you uncovered in your last case about the former King has upset some powerful people.’
‘I discovered that King George V was a scoundrel.’
‘Some people wouldn’t consider that much of a discovery.’
I was taken aback to hear her say that. The discovery that our King was not a good egg had shocked me deeply at the time, and still did. ‘Your Ladyship, I found the revelation quite astonishing.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Wenlock, that was uncalled for. The truth is, you are in a jam. As far as I can see, you only have one way of dealing with Room Forty-Two: you must seek an interview with Princess Elizabeth. She is cut from a different cloth. The King’s health is deteriorating, more and more official duties are being devolved to Her Highness. It cannot be long now … that will be your chance.’
‘And why should she worry about a chap such as me?’
She drew long and slowly on her cigarette, and peered at me through the smoke. ‘Would it surprise you to learn that she is an admirer of the Railway Goslings?’
‘It would surprise me greatly.’
‘In many respects she was no different from other children, she read all the Railway Gosling annuals, she longed to meet you and be given a Gosling’s Friend badge. But you never turned up on the Royal Train.’
‘I was never invited.’
She nodded.
I went on, ‘You know of course that I have as much chance of being granted an interview with her as with Father Christmas?’
‘Your chances are much better than that, because I intend to write to her and plead your case. You will need to get yourself out of harm’s way for the time being though, I don’t expect the King to croak immediately. All of which makes the offer I am about to suggest all the more timely. It should see you through until Princess Elizabeth ascends the throne. I have booked you passage on the SS Pandora, sailing from Southampton to Singapore. Bates, who collected you from the station, will take care of the details.’
The telephone on the bedside table rang and Lady Seymour answered. ‘Yes, put him through.’ I waited, aware that Lady Seymour’s countenance darkened as she listened to the caller. She whispered, ‘Yes, thank you, I will,’ and replaced the receiver.
She looked up and informed me that earlier in the afternoon Jenny had been called to the hospital to identify my corpse. Apparently I had fallen into the path of a train.
Lady Seymour explained in a voice hoarse with shock. ‘I cannot reveal to you how I know about these matters, but I have a source – reliable and highly placed within Room Forty-Two. I’m told that a man dressed as a post office special messenger turned up at the engine sheds asking for you. The men working there pointed him in the right direction, and later a man said to be you was found on the track, having been hit by a train.’
In the hall I rang the grocer’s shop at the end of my street and beseeched him to pass an urgent message to Jenny informing her that I was alive and that she must begin packing at once, and pack only the barest essentials. I took the next train back to Exeter and waited there for the milk train that deposited me back at Weeping Cross at dawn. My heart was in the grip of a pain so acute I found myself clutching it for much of the journey as if it contained a dagger. At Weeping Cross railway station I hailed a taxi, an extravagance unthinkable in the life I had led up until this moment. At Dandelion Hill I instructed the driver to wait and bounded up the stairway of our tenement. The door was half open and Jenny sat on the bed, stiffly erect, with her back to me.
‘Jenny,’ I said. I waited. She turned her head slowly, like a mechanical doll. ‘Jenny,’ I repeated, ‘It’s me.’
‘Jack?’
I walked over, sat beside her as she burst into tears. I took her in my arms, muffling her cries.
‘Jack, they said—’
‘There, there,’ and I tightened my arms.
‘Jack,’ she said again.
I held her face in my hands and stared into her eyes, swollen from crying. ‘We have no time,’ I said. ‘We must leave now.’
Like two ghosts we descended the stairs, carrying a single suitcase towards an adventure that I had no way of imagining. We stepped into the taxi and drove off down Dandelion Hill. As we descended we drove past a man who had just alighted from an omnibus. A man wearing the livery of a post office special messenger.
EXT. SOUTHAMPTON DOCK. NIGHT
The white hull of the steamship Rajah Brooke gleams in the bright dock lights. Ticker tape festoons her sides and trails down from her decks to the dock. Passengers throng the deck, pressing against the rail, waving and calling excitedly to their families on the quayside. A brass band plays.
On the quayside, among the derricks, a policeman and two soldiers are searching with hurricane lamps. The policeman holds a ‘Wanted’ notice bearing the photograph of a girl and the headline WANTED MILLIE TOOKEY. GERMAN SPY.
EXT. SECTION OF THE DOCKS. NIGHT
MILLIE TOOKEY stands amid wooden crates and coiled ropes outside a warehouse. She is wearing her old school mackintosh and has a small, cheap cardboard suitcase. Tied to the suitcase handle is a battered old teddy bear with stuffing leaking from one ear and one eye missing.
She is a safe distance from the search party. They stand between her and the gangway to the ship. If they moved further along, she could slip past unnoticed. A SOLDIER holding a lamp appears from the shadows. He looks at MILLIE and their gazes lock. He is young, no more than seventeen, a year older than MILLIE.
MILLIE TOOKEY
Please do not betray me, Sir. I promise you on all that’s holy that I am not a spy. Just a poor girl whose life has gone terribly wrong.
The SOLDIER lets his gaze linger on her for a brief moment as if to consider. He makes up his mind. He moves his lamp away from her and turns as if he had not seen her. He shouts to his companions.
SOLDIER
Nothing here, Sarge!
EXT. DECK OF THE SS RAJAH BROOKE. NIGHT
The ship sounds its horn three times. A great cry goes up from the crowds on deck as the ship slowly moves from the quay into the Solent. Up on the funnel deck – normally reserved for walking the dogs of first-class passengers – MILLIE TOOKEY stands alone, watching Southampton recede into the night. Tears stream down her face.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
THE NEXT FOUR PAGES HAVE BEEN RENDERED ILLEGIBLE
BY SEA WATER DAMAG
E.
EXT. DECK OF THE SS RAJAH BROOKE. NIGHT
The typhoon continues to lash the ship. The bows have sunk beneath the water and the stern has risen correspondingly a few yards clear. Her propellers spin in empty air. The ship lists, causing the lifeboats – pitifully few – to foul their lanyards. Crowds throng the deck and cry out in terror. A ship’s officer, looking scared, fires his pistol into the air in an attempt to bring the mob to order. MILLIE TOOKEY appears on deck wearing a Mae West and holding her suitcase. An officer spots her.
OFFICER
Where are your mother and father?
MILLIE TOOKEY
In the cemetery, Sir.
The OFFICER takes her suitcase and throws it onto a pile of others. He urges her towards the crowds vainly trying to clamber aboard the lifeboats.
There is a terrible metallic creak and the bows slip further under. Sea water washes a host of passengers off into sea. A great cry of lamentation goes up. MILLIE TOOKEY runs to retrieve her suitcase.
FADE OUT
Chapter 4
‘Farewell, England!’ Jenny pressed against the handrail of the SS Pandora and waved to the dock. ‘Farewell!’
A thin drizzle filled the sky, dampening our faces but never quite resolving into droplets. It obscured the town of Southampton, disguising the buildings and turning the lights into fizzing torches. Our hearts fizzed too in a whirl of exhilaration and fear.
We had been in Southampton a week now, while Lady Seymour made travelling arrangements and acquired on our behalf the necessary travel documents.
I had spent the week trying to grasp this sudden receipt of news concerning a mother lost for ever. I felt the same bafflement a South Sea Islander might feel who, never having seen an aeroplane, one day sees a piece of one fall out of the sky.
The Corpse in the Garden of Perfect Brightness Page 3
