Separation, The

by Jefferies, Dinah

  ‘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.

  30

  Outside the tall grey walls of the nursing home, an icy January wind pinched my cheeks. At nearly fourteen, Dad said I was old enough now to come on the bus to visit Gran on my own. In my dream last night were Fleur and me, when we were small, playing hide and seek in the park in Malacca. I smiled at the memory of days when I called Fleur a Mealy Worm, and Mum strutted about, pretending she didn’t know where we were, and calling our names in an obvious voice. Now where can those girls be? I’m quite sure they were here a minute ago, she’d say. And we’d clutch each other and squeak with excitement.

  I peeked through a large window, its frame peeling. Not, I hoped, a warning sign. Inside it looked as I expected, worn chairs placed around the edges of the room, like lonely little islands.

  I was shown into a room overlooking the back garden, its windows draped in thin floral fabric, and where I sat stiffly on a high backed, wooden chair. I watched the hands of a wall clock move slowly. How awful to live surrounded by the musty smell of old age, watching your life tick on, with nothing to eat but semolina pudding.

  When a young, pink-cheeked attendant showed Gran in, I blinked the wetness from my eyes. Gran had always been small, but it hurt to see her so frail. Shoulders stooped, and looking down, it seemed as if she couldn’t trust her own feet. And they’d given her a square haircut, with an odd side fringe that didn’t look right.

  She looked up and her deep blue eyes lit up. ‘Oh, Emma ducks. You’re like a ray of sunshine.’ She lifted trembly fingers to where a vein throbbed in her neck.

  I hugged her carefully, and led her to a brown nylon sofa. The attendant promised tea and biscuits. While Gran settled back into the cushions, I felt strained, my hopes fading that she might be able to help me.

  ‘It’s my hip, dear. Not so steady on my pins now. But never mind that. How long are you home for?’

  At least she remembered I wasn’t living at home. ‘Not long, Gran. It’s the end of the Christmas holidays now. Has Dad been to see you lately?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t really remember. I think he came with that woman.’

  ‘Veronica?’

  ‘That’s the one. Poor woman. She wanted a family you know. They came with her brother. Objectionable man.’

  I bit my lip and looked at the floor, my crime uppermost in my mind.

  ‘Don’t worry, dear, I don’t blame you for sticking a knife in his neck. Given half a chance I’d do the same.’

  ‘Gran! You are terrible. And anyway it was a dart.’ We both guffawed, and the strain dissolved.

  She patted my knee, and went to tidy the strings of her apron, but it was just out of habit, as she didn’t even wear one now. ‘He’s gone away abroad again. Never did like the man.’

  With no chance to speak to Veronica yet, I hadn’t heard the news about Mr Oliver. I let out a huge breath, and couldn’t hide how relieved I was.

  Gran sighed pointedly when tea arrived. It was far too hot for me, but she gulped it noisily. She liked her tea scorching, just like Dad. I watched her munch the digestive biscuit. Crumbs fell on her chest and showered her skirt, but apart from being messy, she seemed okay, her memory not so very bad.

  ‘Always digestives, even though it’s cream biscuits I like,’ she grumbled, then stopped, as if trying to rescue a memory. ‘There’s something I wanted to tell you, ducks.’

  I looked up.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Something.’

  My thoughts went straight to my mother. Could this be about what had happened to Mum? But Gran drew her brows together and shook her head. In any case, I was pretty sure she didn’t know what had happened to Mum. Nobody knew.

  ‘No, it’s gone.’

  ‘Never mind, Gran. If it’s important, it’ll come back.’

  ‘That’s just what your dear mother used to say. But I’m afraid I can’t count on things coming back any more. At least not when I need them to.’

  Gran placed a heavily veined hand on my arm and studied my face. ‘How is it there, dear? Really. At school.’

  I shrugged in an attempt to look indifferent, and spoke in a breezy tone of voice. ‘It’s okay. But Gran I wanted to ask you something. About my dad, and who’s paying my fees.’

  ‘Oh, ducks …’ Gran’s lips trembled as she looked at me, but then, just as I thought she was going to tell me, she turned and looked blankly at the window. ‘The garden’s a bit grey today. But it’ll come to life soon.’

  I watched a tear slide down her left cheek. ‘I miss your granddad,’ she said. ‘Every day I think of him. Grumpy old sod.’

  I patted her hand. ‘He wasn’t grumpy, Gran. Only with Dad.’

  ‘They rubbed each other up the wrong way, ducks. Always did. Didn’t help that the blighter left me when your dad was just a kid.’

  ‘Really? I didn’t know that. Is that what made Dad grumpy?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘All over now.’

  ‘You forgave him?’

  ‘Of course. That’s what you do with people you love.’

  ‘Was Dad grumpy before?’

  ‘When, dear?’

  ‘When he was young. When he was a pilot.’

  ‘Pilot, ducks? Oh no. He was never that.’

  ‘In the war, Gran. Mum said.’

  She frowned. ‘Your Dad was never a pilot. Ground crew, that’s what he was. And very proud I was too.’

  I kept quiet. At the bottom of the garden the wind was swishing branches about. Gran’s shoulders drooped, and the sad look on her worn face really hit me. Impossible to know if she was right, or if it was her memory again. Poor Gran. She was like a dry leaf, still hanging on, but about to be blown away.

  ‘Now what was it you wanted to know?’ she said.

  ‘The fees?’ I tried one more time.

  A burst of sunlight streamed across the floor, and a watchful look came into her eyes.

  ‘Look,’ she said, squinting as the light fell on her face. ‘It’s clearing up. Though mind you, wrap up, it’ll still be a bit nippy.’ She shook her head. I felt she had understood, but it wasn’t fair to force her.

  31

  Unused to such high heels, Lydia clattered up the steps of Harriet Parrott’s colonial home. Today, not even tight shoes could wipe the smile from her face. She smoothed down the new red skirt. Cotton sateen. Cicely’s choice. The slim pencil shape fitted perfectly, moving against her legs and hips as she climbed the steps, and together with a crisp white blouse, her hair newly styled, she felt smarter than she had in months.
She glanced back at the noisy street, and took a sharp breath.

  In a small library, the walls, newly painted the colour of blue-green glass, gave an impression of cool, though not entirely successfully, as beneath the three-bladed fan the humidity remained. A shame, she thought. The day had started off so fresh, but now, through the window, she saw the garden looked flat, colour and depth already stolen by the sun.

  While she waited for Harriet, two Siamese kittens padded across the gleaming oak floor, and rubbed against her bare legs. Harriet would know who to approach, would talk to the right people. She leant down to stroke the kittens, but looked up, surprised to hear George trumpet down the corridor, then stand in the doorway, cracking his knuckles.

  ‘Harriet is out, I’m afraid. Have to make do with me. Drink?’

  She shook her head, and sat on the edge of a narrow teak chair, her bag beside her on the floor. ‘I thought she was expecting me.’

  ‘Anything I can help you with?’ he said, as he mixed his drink.

  She paused for a moment. ‘To be blunt, I’m here because I need help to find out why Jack was killed.’

  He leant towards her, his salt and pepper hair receding now. He was waving a whisky and soda in a meaty hand.

  ‘But you already know, my dear. The communist insurgents. There’s no more reason than that.’ He gave her a commiserating look.

  ‘Someone set it up.’

  ‘My dear, I don’t think it’s possible to find out. I understand. It’s a normal reaction to want to know. But these people are here today and gone tomorrow. And now, with Malaya on the brink of independence, who knows what chaos is coming our way? Be glad to retire, that’s for sure.’ He walked to the drinks cabinet. ‘Sure you won’t have that drink? Sounds like you need one.’

  She fanned herself with her hand and paused, aware of her heart pounding. It was embarrassing to have to say it out loud. ‘George, there’s something else. A Chinese woman Jack was involved with. I think she could provide a lead.’