Separation, The

by Jefferies, Dinah

  ‘It’s a lovely house,’ Veronica remarked.

  ‘Do make yourself comfortable while I fetch the tea. Would you like cake? I’m afraid I have to charge for cake and admission.’

  Veronica nodded politely, as my stomach growled from lack of breakfast.

  I looked round the room. There were knick-knacks on every surface, and the wallpaper was fussy, patterned with yellow willow trees and exotic blue birds. The sofa was upholstered in plush green velvet, and studded in a diamond pattern, and three gold-shaded standard lamps lit the room, their tasselled edges shifting slightly with the movement of air. I leant forward, pressing my palms down on the velvet pile of the sofa.

  Bonnie Butcher came back with a delicate tray and placed it on a small round table between us.

  ‘Help yourself to cake.’

  There were two kinds. I went for a slice of chocolate layer cake, but groaned inwardly when I noticed two clear prints where my clammy palms had flattened the velvet pile of the sofa. Transferring the cake to my other hand, I carefully rubbed one of the marks, only making it worse. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, and hoped she hadn’t noticed.

  A stretch of silence passed, with only the clink of teacups, and me trying to chew as quietly as I could. The lady drank her tea with a little finger raised in the air and kept glancing at me. When she’d finished, she patted her lips with a paper napkin, and took a breath.

  ‘Now, you wish to find out the name of somebody who sat for the artist. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes. In the nineteen twenties. I have the picture here.’

  Veronica took the miniature from me and passed it to the woman.

  She nodded. ‘Oh, yes. I can help you there.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ I burst out.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  I plastered what I hoped was a trustworthy smile across my face and explained. ‘You see she might be a relative.’

  I don’t know if what I said upset her, but she frowned, and with narrowed eyes looked cagey for a moment. I held my breath and crossed my fingers behind my back.

  ‘I know this woman,’ she said, after a long pause. ‘There are two more of her. You’d better follow me.’

  I rose from the sofa with as much poise as I could, and she led us up a sweeping staircase to a room with big windows. They stretched from floor to ceiling, and overlooked a garden with tall trees swaying in the wind. Though it wasn’t cold, a fire blazed in an ornate, open fireplace.

  Portraits of varying sizes covered the walls. Old faces, young faces, ugly faces, beautiful faces; their eyes followed you wherever you looked. On the wall opposite the windows, a painting of a middle-aged gentleman with a beard and a moody-looking face hung beside two other pictures of portly men.

  ‘This is the gallery,’ she said proudly. She pointed a finger past my shoulder. ‘And that woman is the one in your painting. Emma Rothwell.’

  I spun round. The face was luminous, her cheeks soft, her face oval, and proud arched eyebrows framed hazel eyes, though flecks the colour of deep water took them somewhere between blue and green. She looked even more like my mother than in the miniature I held in my hand. I sucked in my breath. Veronica nodded and smiled, but I felt a burst of heat. The room spun and I stepped back against a table.

  I must have gone dizzy, because the next thing I knew, I was leaning back on a big squishy sofa with Veronica bending over me. Bonnie Butcher had left the room.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Veronica said, looking worried.

  ‘It’s the heat.’

  She reached out a hand.

  I held it and the words came out in a rush. ‘My mother’s maiden name was Rothwell. She never thought it was a real name. She thought it was just a name the nuns gave her.’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Now we know what we have to do. Let’s find out if Emma Rothwell is still alive.’

  I nodded and said a little prayer. Please God let her be alive, and please let us find her. We went downstairs, Veronica holding me by the elbow. At the bottom Bonnie Butcher handed us a little catalogue.

  ‘Of course, none of it’s for sale. He left the place to me you know, for my lifetime, that is. I just have to keep it going as a gallery.’ She paused. ‘If you’re interested, I can show you the rest of the house.’

  I grabbed the opportunity, my mind spinning with thoughts of Emma Rothwell. Who she was, what she was doing there, how she knew the painter. I hoped Bonnie Butcher could tell me more.

  Downstairs was very old fashioned, just three rooms with uneven flagstone floors, and small high windows that you could only see out of if you went on tiptoe. The two at the back looked out on a yard. She saw me balancing.

  ‘We keep the coal out there and, of course, the original WC is there too.’

  In the narrow front room an old black hob with a copper pan took up half the wall, with a mangle and Belfast sink on the other side. From the ceiling a wide contraption hung, with wheels and rope: a kind of pulley, I guessed, for drying clothes

  ‘He liked things kept the way they used to be,’ she said.

  Upstairs her eyes darted about as she showed us his studio, a high, north facing room, with a larger than usual window. She stroked the objects as we went round, as if by touch alone she could assure their continued presence. Everything seemed to be intact, as if the artist had just popped out. Tubes of oil paint, brushes, even a lingering trace of turps mingled with the smell of Ibcol disinfectant. There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere, though I didn’t imagine it was like that when he worked there. Bonnie Butcher prefers it this way, I thought. Easier to clean a dead artist’s studio.

  ‘She would have sat there for her portrait,’ she said.

  I looked at the faded chair in the window. That chair. Emma Rothwell sat in that chair when she wasn’t much older than me.

  ‘Can I?’ I asked.

  She nodded, and I sat to look out on an old-fashioned garden, with a square lawn, hedges down the sides, and tangled ivy climbing over the wooden fence at the back. In front of that were tall poplars. My grandmother must have stared at those same trees, in all sorts of moods, listened to the blackbirds chirrup, heard voices from the other gardens. For a moment I couldn’t have felt more alone. The sky was sullen and dull, but maybe she looked out when sunlight threw a pattern on the grass beneath the trees. Or maybe it was winter, and the lawn and hedges would have been white with snow.

  So close to her, I felt myself slip back into the past. I wondered if she wore scent, and what it smelt like. I wanted to hear her story, yet I, who could tell stories from morning until night, couldn’t think of a single reason she would abandon her baby in the way she had.

  I heard a transistor radio playing in one of the gardens. Housewives’ Choice. Doris Day was singing ‘Que sera, sera’, one of Mum’s favourite songs. It brought me back to the present.

  ‘Did you know Mr Patterson for long?’ I asked.

  ‘All my life. He never married, though he was a handsome man. I was his housekeeper. He made his name as a war painter, you know. First World War of course.’

  I didn’t know. There only seemed to be portraits on display.

  ‘The war pictures all sold, every one. After the war he turned to portraits, though they didn’t do as well. I met her, you know, Emma Rothwell.’ She gave me a funny look. ‘With the light on your face like that, you have a look of her.’

  My heart was pounding as I asked the next question. ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t know about that. I only saw them when they sat, dear. And it was a long time ago.’

  We didn’t go to the park to see the boating, or to see a film, but Veronica took me to the Belle View Hotel for lunch, and then we went shopping. I couldn’t believe it when she let me choose some black ski-pants just like hers, a dark blue duffle coat that I’d wanted for ages, and a little tight-fitting powder blue jumper. I was so happy I could have cried. She told me her hair was permed and asked if I wanted mine done. I laughed and
pointed at my wild curls, but I said I’d like it cut, and she took me to her own hairdresser. While my hair fell on the floor, ‘Sweet Sixteen’ played on the radio. Veronica took out a slim silver cigarette case and lit up, and I really wished I was sixteen. I came away with a short pixie cut and felt very grown up. We forgot the cheese and ham, though, sadly, not the yellow bridesmaid’s dress.

  Taller now, Fleur was growing up too. The puppy fat was gone, and her once blonde hair, now light brown, was in a ponytail. When she came into my room dressed up in some old clothes of Granny’s – she’d pinned up a long black skirt at the back and wore a floral blouse – I saw her as if for the first time, and realised Fleur was very pretty. Little snub nose and dimpled chin. The boys that wanted a girl who hung on their every word, while they pretended to be tough, would be after her. Unlike me. I was too opinionated to be attractive to most boys.

  ‘Do you want to play dressing up?’ she said. ‘We could do one of your stories, like we used to.’

  ‘Why would I want to do that? It’s kids’ stuff.’

  She looked at me strangely.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ I snapped.

  ‘Nothing. It’s just your hair. You’re different, Em, you never play any more.’

  ‘In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not here most of the time.’

  She looked at me with tears in her eyes. ‘But even when you are you don’t.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Anyway it’s nothing to do with you.’

  This wasn’t strictly true, because what was on my mind was everything to do with me and her, but if I told her, she’d give the game away.

  I left the room to find Veronica. Father was at home all the time, and though he’d accepted a job in Birmingham, an admin job at a hotel chain, he hadn’t started yet. He was glued to the television, watching the news, so I motioned to Veronica to come outside.

  It was growing dark in the garden, and mist rising across the field made the beech tree look ghostly. I had a flash of our garden in Malacca, and felt sad about that one, as well as this one. Granddad’s pride and joy. Once there had been gooseberry bushes, a lilac tree, raspberry canes in one corner, and a gnarled crab apple at the back. And all along the wire fence, he had grown prize marrows and cabbages.

  The mist turned to fine rain as soon as Veronica came out.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about Emma Rothwell,’ she said, putting up a hand to protect her hair.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘If she’s alive, and if I can find an address, let’s visit her together.’

  ‘It’s a big if …’

  She patted me on the shoulder and went in. I’d wanted to know if I could trust her, and now I really felt I could. Was it wrong? Would Mum be cross that her rival was helping me? I shook my head. In my heart I knew Veronica was not Mum’s rival, knew too that my mother did not love my father.

  In Malaya, when the moon lit the balcony, I used to hide, listen to the adults talk and watch the foxes fly between the trees. When I told Billy foxes could fly, he called me a liar and ignored me for a week. I knew all about Mum’s love affair with Jack, though she didn’t know I did. Once, when Jack stayed the night, I slipped round the outside balcony and peered through the open window at their sleeping bodies, the thin sheet hardly even covering them. I didn’t know what to do. I was angry, wanted to rush in there and push him out. Dad should have been there, not him. But then Mum smiled in her sleep, and I crept away. For days I kept looking at her and wondering what to do, but the thing was, everything went on as normal. The world didn’t end, at least not then.

  37

  The sour smell of her own sweat woke her, followed by the shrill ring of the phone. She wiped the damp from her hairline, tripped over her clothes, and sat at the end of the bed nursing her ankle. It was late. Bright sun had already burnt off the morning mist and she was wondering why she’d stayed. She knew, of course, but tried to convince herself it was because she felt deceived by Cicely, who’d never hinted at the nature of her work, nor even that she had a job at all. And after all, if that was the case, what more hadn’t she said?

  There was a sound of knocking. She stumbled from the room, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, grabbed Adil’s bathrobe and opened the door.

  Cicely stood on the mat, serene and coordinated, in a dove grey, silk shift dress, and red, patent-leather strap sandals. She held a large holdall, had a contrite smile on her face, and smelt of her usual expensive scent. Someone less like a spy it was hard to imagine, unless, of course, you took into account her incomparable ability to maintain her cool.

  ‘What on earth?’ Lydia said.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, darling. Had no choice.’ Cicely put her foot in the doorway.

  Lydia raised a hand to block her. ‘I know, Cicely. About your work.’

  Cicely’s eyes widened. She cocked her head and shrugged. ‘Then you’ll know the doormat is not the place to discuss it. Here, I brought you some clothes.’

  ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘Oh, darling, don’t be silly. Of course I knew.’

  Lydia allowed her to pass and trailed after her into the flat. Cicely positioned herself in front of the window. Then her wide-eyed stare swept over Lydia. ‘I see you’ve taken my advice.’

  Lydia glanced down at Adil’s black silk robe. In the night, when a dream of Lili shocked her into waking, she’d padded to the bathroom, heard his slow regular breathing as she passed. A full moon had cast a silver light across his forehead and cheekbones, throwing the hollows of his face into greater darkness. He stirred in his sleep, and she’d hurried back to bed.

  ‘It’s not what you think.’

  ‘I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t,’ Cicely said. ‘Though I have to agree, he’s utterly delectable.’ She raised her eyebrows and gave Lydia a grin. ‘However, just a little tip, darling, stay away from God’s gift. He’s dangerous. But then you like bad boys don’t you, darling? So much better in the sack. Where is he anyway?’

  ‘Did he tell you I was here?’

  Cicely shrugged

  Lydia looked away. ‘I’ve no idea where he is.’

  ‘Well, come over here and listen to what I’ve heard.’

  Lydia stood where she was, hands on hips. ‘Hang on a minute. You haven’t explained why you never told me about your job. Or that you work with Adil. In fact, when I mentioned his name, you didn’t even tell me you knew him.’

  ‘There’s more than one Adil, darling, though even Ralph doesn’t know the half of it. I told you men never know what’s really going on.’

  ‘I’m beginning to believe you.’

  She stared past Cicely at the typical blue-skied Malacca morning. Where was Adil? He’d promised to call on a colleague of George’s, but hadn’t mentioned how long he’d be gone. She crossed to the refrigerator and took out a beer.

  Cicely lit a cigarette, blonde hair neatly tucked behind one ear. ‘Something rather extraordinary has happened,’ she said. ‘Promise not to be upset.’

  There was a subtle shift in atmosphere.

  ‘It’s about Lili.’

  Lydia tensed.

  There was a glint of amusement in Cicely’s eyes. ‘She’s been picked up by the harbour police. You know they have to keep a watch out for subversive suspects on the fishing boats. Though it’s more likely the communists are smuggling across the Straits of Johore, not here. Anyway, Lili’s been implicated in Jack’s murder. I thought you’d want to know – shall I go on?’

  Lydia inhaled sharply and gave a curt nod.

  Cicely told the whole story, and when she’d finished, she walked towards the door. ‘Well, I’ll let you get on. Come back to the house when you get tired of lover boy.’

  Lydia sat on the sofa and leant back. According to Cicely, a chance remark from a harbour master had alerted the police, and Lili was picked up wandering the docks. She declared she was ruined, and claimed Jack had raped her. She insisted she’d only wanted to pay him back. Lydia gu
lped down the beer to rid herself of the bitter taste. With the image of Lili’s perfume bottle in her mind, Lydia knew it was lies. The girl’s duplicity left her breathless. She clenched her fists, the anger growing so intense she had to sit to stop herself from smashing something. Lili had been perfectly willing. Jealousy caused Jack’s death, nothing more. George had been right about that. She hung her head and covered her eyes, desperate to wipe the image of Jack’s blood from her mind.

  When brought in and challenged, Lili had admitted her involvement with the insurgents, maintaining that she’d run away to be free of Jack. Crushed and dispirited, she’d hidden in the only place he couldn’t find her. The jungle. When the communists picked her up, she had persuaded Maznan’s mother that her son was in danger. So they ransacked Jack’s house, and came away with food, but no money, but the important thing was, they’d found a way in, and the next day Maz was taken.

  Lydia remembered Lili’s slender waist and back, the long black hair stretching all the way down to tight, high buttocks. She imagined Jack sleeping with her, night after night. She imagined Lili cry out, and saw them lie together afterwards, Jack smoking, hands behind his head, blue eyes gazing at the ceiling in the way he did. Even now she felt the sting of jealousy. For a moment she thought of Alec, and their old life together. The way she used to come out of the bathroom, intentionally dropping her towel on the floor, and completely naked, raise her arms in front of him to tie up her hair. He wouldn’t even notice her there. It was the price she’d had to pay to be somebody, and for ignoring the early presentiments of disaster.

  She wanted to blame Lili, but couldn’t get away from the thought that if she hadn’t turned up at the plantation, none of this would have happened. Lili would be happy in her role as Jack’s mistress and Jack would still be alive. Instead, some months after Maz was taken, on a line crackling with interference, speaking in a gruff imitation of Bert, one of the insurgents had made that fateful call to Jack.