Separation, The

by Jefferies, Dinah

  ‘Slow down, Alec!’ my mother yelled. ‘I know you’re upset, but you’re going too fast. It’s wet. For heaven’s sake, look at the water.’

  I peeked out of the window. We were in the foothills and the road was swimming with water.

  From behind I saw the veins stand out in his neck, and I noticed one of Mum’s lizard earrings drop as she reached across to grab the wheel. I tried to tell her, but the car whizzed off to the other side of the road. With his foot still on the accelerator, Dad tried to twist us back over to the right side of the road, but he raced forward round a bend, and had to slam on the brakes.

  The car went over the edge with a loud bang, and wedged halfway into a storm ditch, beside a big clump of bamboo.

  Mother’s voice cracked. ‘For Christ’s sake, Alec. You’re off your goddamn rocker. Look what you’ve bloody well done now.’

  I knew we were in trouble because Mum didn’t swear, except when she thought we couldn’t hear, though I’d heard her swear when they’d both had too much to drink. I’d roll the sounds out, say them under my breath, daring to get a little bit louder each time and finding words to rhyme.

  I heard Mum plead with my dad.

  ‘Don’t leave us here. What if there’s a road block?’ She sounded scared, but it didn’t stop Father.

  ‘Here. Use that if you need to,’ he said, and threw a pistol on the driver’s seat. ‘Emma. Look after Fleur.’

  As soon as he left to get help, the jungle crept closer, with leaves the size of frying pans, and in the branches, eyes that blinked at you. Mum turned round and stopped sobbing, as if she’d suddenly remembered us sitting there, with our bare legs sticking to hot leather seats. ‘Emma, Fleur. Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, Mummy,’ we both said, Fleur’s voice more tearful than mine.

  ‘It’s all right, darlings. Daddy’s just gone to get help.’ Her eyes flicked over us. She was trying to make it sound all right, but I suspected it wasn’t. I knew about terrorists in the jungle. They’d tie you to a tree, and chop off your head as soon as they clapped eyes on you. Then put it up on a pole. I squeezed my eyes shut, terrified of seeing a head grinning at me.

  Mum started humming.

  Soon it would be completely dark and the stars would come out, then it’d be better. Though on the subject of terror, Mother didn’t know that I’d seen even worse at the waxwork museum. Just past the shrunken heads, there was a Children Prohibited section. I didn’t stay. Only long enough to see tiny waxwork models of white women and children, pinned to the ground, still alive, their painted red mouths wide open in a scream. Coming towards them, driven by a Jap, was an enormous steamroller, normally used to flatten tarmac roads. Only this time it was being used to flatten those people. When I got outside I was sick in a rubbish bin.

  Japs were bad. Our parents said so. Though the people in the jungle now, the ones they called terrorists, they were Chinese. I didn’t understand. Our amah, Mei-Lien, was Chinese and I loved her. Why was it that Japs were bad before, but now Chinese people, though only some? It didn’t make sense.

  Our car was stuck well off the main road and almost where the bandits were. But even deeper in the jungle lived the spirits who ate children. Our gardener, whose mouth was red from chewing betel nut, told us.

  ‘If you ever get lost in the jungle, watch out for the hantu hantuan,’ he said. He narrowed his eyes in a scary way, but it was confusing because he never told us what they looked like.

  ‘Emma, can you move your arms and legs?’ Mum asked.

  I wriggled them to show I could.

  ‘Fleur?’

  Fleur tried and could move her arms and her left leg; but when she moved the other, she cried out.

  ‘It’s probably bruised. Get her shoe off before it swells, Emma.’

  I did it, though Fleur struggled. ‘I don’t like it. Where’s Daddy?’

  I told her she had to keep quiet and that Daddy had gone to get help. She sniffed a bit, made a few moany noises, and then stayed still.

  It was evening time, but in the distance the sound of an explosion broke up the quiet.

  ‘Mummy!’ we both yelled.

  ‘Shhh! It’s nowhere near us.’

  The sky started to turn brown, and white mist slid down from the mountaintop. But at least we weren’t properly in the hills. Because ‘Ada bukit, ada paya’ – where there are hills there are swamps. And they would swallow you whole.

  Eventually Dad came back with an armoured truck that had been on its way back to Malacca. We had to get out while the soldiers pulled the car out of the storm ditch, and by the time we went to bed, it was much later than we’d ever been to bed before.

  The next day, Mum didn’t pick us up from school. Dad did. With an I’m not in the mood for questions face, he ignored us when we asked where Mummy was. Just said we were going away to England.

  Back home, we rushed upstairs to see if Mum was there. She wasn’t. I smelt the lemongrass outside our bedroom window and thought of her big smile and wavy hair. She’d pin it up, with an orange bird of paradise flower, but by lunch it all came tumbling down. And she was always singing, even first thing.

  ‘Come on, Em,’ Fleur said. ‘She’s not here. Let’s play outside.’

  I shook my head.

  Fleur went out to cartwheel, her ankle fine. She always made a fuss.

  I brushed my hair. It’s curlier than Mum’s, and redder. Feral hair, Mum calls it. Then I felt under my pillow for my notebook. But as well as my notebook, an envelope came out, addressed to Fleur and me. What a funny place to leave a letter, I thought, as I tore it open.

  Darlings, I read.

  Suzanne phoned today. I am so sorry, but I have to go to help her. She’s been diagnosed with a dreadful illness and just isn’t able to cope on her own. Her husband, Eric, ought to be back from Borneo in a couple of weeks, so I shouldn’t be awfully much longer than that. Take care of yourselves. Be good. Daddy and Mei-Lien know what to do about school. You can go on the bus. I know how you always want to. If you need any help, get Amah to call Cicely or Harriet Parrott. Their addresses are in the red book.

  All my love, Mummy

  I put it back under my pillow, and went out to hide under the house.

  It was our last day, and more than three weeks since Mum had gone. Just before we left to go to the ship, Amah was still folding useful clothes into our trunk. Trousers, underwear, a sweater or two. I didn’t really care. My pink gingham party dress sat on the pile of unwanted stuff, and I sat on the bed, thinking of the Holy Infant College, my school. Next to a row of palm trees, it was painted white, and there were add-on rooms, with no glass in the windows. Just bamboo shutters that got closed up when we went home.

  I felt sad. We wouldn’t be going to school there any more, but my biggest sadness was it looked like we’d be gone before Mum came home. Because if that happened, she’d come back to an empty house. I was pleased that, at least, she’d have my letter.

  Mei-Lien picked up my school tunic. ‘You want keep?’

  I looked at it and shook my head. ‘No point.’

  ‘Daddy say we finish pack now. No daydream. Go now.’

  I took the tunic, folded it neatly, and put it on top of the pile. I put Mum’s note in the trunk, then slipped in a framed photo of her, hazel eyes all crinkled up. Last of all, I put Fleur’s pink rabbit in. If she had it in the cabin with her, it might get lost, or even end up overboard.

  Half an hour later, we drove off without Mum. A lorry had come to take the trunks, and the taxi was taking Dad, Fleur, and me. As we left Malacca, I looked out at the sea, and wound down the window to smell the wild orchids. They were nice, but my mind was full of questions, and I had to pinch my skin really hard to stop the tears.

  4

  At the sprawling colonial residence, the Malay servant led Lydia through a large, glass-ceilinged hall, with a crystal chandelier. A framed picture of the queen faced you as you entered, the floor was tiled in black and silver chequered marble,
and heavy furniture edged the pale green walls. The formality, intended to impress, made her heart pound.

  Harriet Parrott’s husband, George, was District Officer, or DO as they were generally referred to. Apart from the Commissioner, it was the highest position you could hold in the British Administration of Malaya, with a key role supporting Britain’s armed forces. If he doesn’t know, she thought, who will?

  The hall led to a veranda, where she was asked to wait under the shade of a mature angsana tree. Glad of protection from the morning sun, she looked about and tried to steady her breath. At the front of the lawn, a crimson-bellied sunbird flew over two bushes of fragrant golden hibiscus. In the distance, coconut palms stretched tall trunks to the sky.

  This felt all wrong. It was time to take the children to school. She closed her eyes and saw herself drive there, but her head felt muddled. Something stopped her, like in a bad dream. A voice kept repeating, Where are the girls? Where are they? She saw the main school buildings in her mind’s eye, and willed the girls to race across the gravel at the front, satchels flying.

  An aroma of chilli-pepper reached her from the kitchens. She felt her throat close. Was it Friday today? She managed to swallow. Whatever day it was, there would be no drive to school, and once the heat descended, it was impossible to travel without a car. She looked out at the blue sky. The car. She hadn’t checked the garage. Could it be that Alec’s driver had taken them somewhere in an official car instead?

  At the sound of footsteps, she turned to see a tall, heavy-bosomed woman approach: Harriet, poised and self-assured. Orange lips in a plump face full of powdered wrinkles, dyed black hair loosely piled on top of her head, and, famous for her citrus colours, she wore only silk. Today it was green and yellow. And though Em’s description of her was less than flattering, Lydia could see why her daughter called her the matriarch.

  ‘Lydia. Dear,’ said Mrs Parrott, holding out her fleshy hand, nails lacquered in Chinese orange. She wore a half smile in sharp, black eyes.

  Aware of the early hour, Lydia gulped, her skin flushing deeply. ‘I’m so sorry – but the phone’s down,’ she said.

  Mrs Parrott inclined her head, and settled herself into a wide rattan armchair. Lydia perched on the edge of her own and took a deep breath.

  ‘Alec and the children aren’t at home. Everything’s gone.’ Her voice rose as she raced through the words, and she held her hands together to stop them shaking. ‘I came by taxi. Sorry it’s so early. I don’t know what to do. As Alec’s boss, do you think George might?’

  Harriet raised high pencil-drawn eyebrows. ‘My dear. Have you no idea? Have you been to the police?’

  Lydia shook her head, holding back tears. ‘I should’ve gone last night, but I didn’t dare leave the house. Stupid of me. I thought they might come back.’

  ‘Maybe no need. I’m sure George will know. Thick as thieves, Alec and George.’ She picked up the hand bell. ‘You’re lucky. He’s working from home.’

  Within minutes her thin-hipped houseboy, Noor, was sent off to bring the master to the salon. Immediately.

  Lydia stared out of the window and prayed Harriet was right. She heard George’s deep voice echoing off the walls of the corridor leading from his office. Even from where she sat, Lydia could tell he was annoyed.

  ‘What’s all this, Harriet? I am busy,’ he said, exploding on to the patio, his large square frame filling the doorway.

  Without missing a beat, Harriet indicated Lydia, sitting sideways to him.

  ‘Lydia is desperate to know where Alec and the children are.’

  Dressed in tropical linens, George came round to face Lydia, his heavy eyebrows meeting in the middle. He coughed, ran a hand through short salt and pepper hair and scratched his chin. ‘Sorry. Didn’t see you there.’

  She stared up at the sweat shining on the skin above his top lip.

  There was the slightest pause.

  ‘I thought he’d have left instructions,’ he said, puffing out red cheeks. ‘Been posted north. Up at Ipoh. Bit of a rush job. The chap running financial admin up there kicked the bucket suddenly. Heart I think.’

  She let out her breath, felt the room spin, put a hand to her chest. ‘Oh my Lord. Thank you. That explains everything. Thank you so much, George. I knew there had to be an explanation. His note must be missing.’

  ‘Alec went ahead a few days ago. Maybe he left instructions with the bank. You know, in case the house was reallocated before you got back.’

  Harriet nodded. ‘That makes sense.’

  ‘Bad roads to Ipoh,’ George said.

  ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘A couple of days by car, depending on land mines and what have you. Longer by bus, of course. By train could be best. Fantastic Moorish station at Ipoh.’

  ‘I could phone Alec. Ask him to meet me there.’

  ‘No phones or postal service working in the district. Lines all cut. Terrific chaos. Not as bad as getting to Penang, but still.’ He dashed off, mumbling a few words to Harriet as he passed.

  ‘Can you let me have the address?’ Lydia called after him.

  He looked back over his shoulder. ‘Just the rest house up there. Larger than usual, fifty or so rooms I believe. Temporary, until they get allocated a house, but they should still be there. Best be careful, travelling alone in the Emergency.’

  There was a silence as he headed for the door.

  Harriet peered at her.

  ‘I’m not going to give you the third degree, but you don’t seem too good. A bit less Rita Hayworth than your usual look.’

  Lydia dabbed the moisture from her hairline and slapped at the flies settling on her skin. At thirty-one, she was shapely and vivacious, and knew how to make a splash, but apart from the hair, the resemblance to the film star was slight.

  ‘An old friend has polio. Suzanne Fleetwood. I’ve just got back. I hated having to leave the children for so much longer than I expected, almost a month actually, but her husband is in Borneo and she couldn’t reach him. You know he’s in intelligence.’

  Harriet shot a look at George’s disappearing back.

  Lydia sighed. ‘I know. Keep it under my hat. The awful thing is they’re shipping her back to England in an iron lung.’

  ‘A sad business. You will have been a great help to her. But you must feel better now, knowing where your family are?’

  Lydia’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh yes. It’s just I was so looking forward to seeing them again.’

  ‘Have you had breakfast?’

  She shook her head.

  Harriet’s lips tightened. ‘Right. I propose to get something brought out. You know as well as I do that one must keep up one’s strength in this God-awful climate, or one’s done for. I should know.’

  Lydia raised her brows.

  ‘Oh, it was nothing in particular, but if you don’t take care of yourself you’ll go downhill damn fast. Now, will pancakes do you?’

  With no wind to stir the air, Lydia felt damp beneath her clothes. She walked quickly, glancing up. Only distant specks of cloud littered the clear horizon, with not a sign of rain. She hopped on a local bus back to Malacca, and made her way through noisy streets, where, trapped within narrow alleyways, the air was already thickening with the smell of saltfish frying and open latrines. She fought the choking sensation in her throat.

  At the bank, two ceiling fans ineffectively blew warm air. She waited in the queue, scalp prickling. At the Parrotts’ she’d made light of it, but now she felt edgy about the journey ahead. She went through a list in her head. Bus timetable for a start, train times too, check the garage, pack. How far was Ipoh? All she could remember was that it was in the Kinta Valley. A hundred miles? No. More like two hundred. Two hundred miles of possibly mined roads. And, if she had to go by bus, it might take days.

  In her haste, that morning, she hadn’t pinned up her hair. Hands clasped behind her head, she lifted the heavy bulk off her neck and flicked the hairs that clung to her face. Most Engl
ish women opted to crop their hair; she hadn’t. Symbol of womanhood, Sister Patricia used to say, but the other women had the right idea; she’d get it chopped. She shuffled forward, flexing her shoulders to release the tension building there.

  She thought of her girls, imagined herself in the car, waiting as they came out of school, waving and waving, tearing along the flower-lined paths that wound between squat buildings. At the makeshift stall opposite, lollipops stuck like flags into a board, sold for a couple of cents. The ones she allowed only on Fridays. It wasn’t just the sugar that bothered her, it was the combined sale of sweets and gambling, for concealed round the end of just one or two was the prize of a one-dollar note.

  She shook her head. She didn’t want them learning that so young. You had to be so careful.

  At last she reached the front of the queue. The young Malay, with soft wavy hair and dusky skin, smiled.

  ‘I need to withdraw some money,’ she said.

  He inclined his head. ‘Certainly, madam.’

  ‘Cartwright. The name’s Cartwright.’

  He turned to face a bank of filing cabinets, and after a moment, withdrew a file.

  ‘I think fifty dollars should do it.’

  He flashed her a look, then bent back down to study the papers.

  She frowned. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘According to this balance, there’s only fifteen dollars left in the account.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous,’ she said, cheeks burning. ‘We were nowhere near the red last month.’

  The man’s lips tightened. ‘Mr Cartwright came in a few days ago and withdrew a large sum.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘Something about a journey.’

  ‘He didn’t leave a letter for me?’