“I’m sorry to intrude, Mr Blythe, but I wanted to say thank you for a lovely exeat.” She stepped down into the conservatory.
“That’s all right, Jane, it was good to meet you. You must come again.” Her choice of attire was a little unconventional, but her reasoning was explained when she looked furtively over her shoulder and then back at me.
“Isabelle’s in the shower and I won’t get the chance to speak to you on your own again.” Before I could say anything she carried on. “I hope you don’t mind me being personal, but I wanted to thank you for reacting the way you did when Isabelle told you what she had done. She’s been worried out of her mind, she felt so guilty.”
The shocked look on my face must have been obvious. “I, erm, well ...”
Jane came closer to me. She smelt of soap and I had to remind myself quickly that I was looking at a fourteen-year old girl.
“She told me the first day back at school what had happened and she has been looking for an opportunity to tell you ever since. The business about her diary and the other things gave her that opportunity. She’s very pleased that you now know and you’re not too angry, especially after I told her that you’d probably only set out to tidy up her room in preparation for her coming home this weekend.”
“Jane, I think there has been a misunderstanding.” I put the mug on the table and moved closer to the window, needing to put a bigger gap between us.
“What Isabelle did, Mr Blythe, is not unusual. Many of the girls at school have lost their virginity by the age of fifteen. They are the lucky ones.”
“What?” I almost shouted. “She told me –”
“No, no, Mr Blythe, I didn’t mean Isabelle. I wanted you to know that … that she is Little Miss Innocent compared to a lot of the girls.”
“Jane, I think ... no, what did you mean when you said they are the lucky ones?”
Jane looked over her shoulder again. “I was twelve, Mr Blythe, and it wasn’t because I wanted it that way. I was raped by my uncle.”
“Jane, where are you?” We both heard Isabelle calling from upstairs. “Jane,” Isabelle called again, and this time it sounded as though she was halfway down the stairs.
“I wanted to tell you to allow what Isabelle did to be kept in perspective,” Jane went on in a rush, lowering her voice. “I know I’m from a troubled country and what I’ve told you doesn’t make things right, but she was a young girl experimenting, that’s all.”
“Jane!” This time Isabelle’s voice came from the kitchen. “Jane, Daddy, where are you?” Frustration was setting in.
“You may only be fourteen, Jane, but …”
Jane had already turned and was stepping up out of the conservatory. She stopped and said over her shoulder, again in a loud whisper, “In Zimbabwe, Mr Blythe, the less time you spend being a child the more chance you have of survival. In a way I was lucky to have reached twelve because the majority don’t.”
“There you are,” Isabelle said coming across the living room. She gave Jane and me a funny look. “What have you two been talking about?”
“I came down to say thank you to your father,” Jane commented innocently.
“What, dressed like that, you’ll give him a heart attack. Come on.”
Isabelle smiled at me and then grabbed Jane by the arm and steered her across the room. At the door, Jane paused and looked back at me. Her expression finished off what she had been saying and I knew that perhaps I had said the right thing to Isabelle after all.
Chapter Twelve
On the Monday morning, I spent over three hours on the phone trying to get through to somebody in any department in the Foreign or Home Offices who might be interested in what I had to say and recognise the names Schwartz and Henke, but I think I knew I was onto a fool’s errand from the outset.
Using every tactic I could think of, from being a relative and wanting to pass on some important news, to needing to discuss an offer they had made, I got nowhere.
Everyone I spoke to blocked me. They were all polite and on one occasion, I thought I was making progress but finally, as with all other avenues I tried, the door was politely but firmly shut in my face.
I even contacted an old friend of mine, Steve Wainwright, who worked in London in the Civil Service, but he rang me back two hours later with a “Sorry, chum, but didn’t get anywhere, I’m afraid.” I couldn’t tell him more than the names I had because I didn’t want to get him into trouble, but even if I had, I doubt whether he would have got any further. After a promise to meet up for a drink the next time I was in London and an offer from him to try if there was anything else he could do, we said goodbye, probably both wanting to keep the promise we made but both knowing we wouldn’t.
Eventually I put whatever I was trying to do down to male pride. I had always been in charge and in control, therefore nobody had any right to invade my space – or anybody else’s space I was controlling – without my permission. The names Henke and Schwartz were false, why couldn’t I accept that and move on?
I went to bed and tried to sleep with the frustration and annoyance still competing for a place in my mind, Belinda then joined in with her wry smile – “Men!” she said.
“What about men?” I asked her image.
“You don’t know when to leave well alone, do you?”
On Wednesday morning among the bills and junk mail there was a letter from a very dear friend I hadn’t seen for nearly three years, although we did send each other cards on our respective religious occasions and birthdays,
His full name was quite a mouthful – Dato Haji Abdullah bin Basrah Ibrahim – or for me, and only a few others, his name was Abby!
He was a high-ranking official in the Negara Brunei Darussalam Government with whom I had worked closely when I went to Brunei on a project in the early 1990s. I had to go back on a number of occasions and, on each trip, Abby and I became closer until eventually we concluded we were firm friends, in other words we totally trusted each other and discussed matters that weren’t for outsiders’ ears. Two worlds had come together in a way some would not understand or want to know about – a Muslim and a Christian were sharing a close and open friendship.
The fact that it was three years since we had seen each other was not an indication that our friendship had waned at all. It was my fault. Until I left Astek, my globetrotting hadn’t allowed me to fit in another trip to Brunei – if I had wanted to see my family that is – and Abby was somewhat tied down with his responsibilities to the Sultan. Indeed, the last time we had seen each other was when Abby came to London in 1997, the year before Belinda fell ill. With the cards we exchanged – Hari Raya and birthday for Abby, and Christmas and birthday for me – we always enclosed long letters bringing each other up to date with what had happened and was likely to happen.
To get a letter in June from Abby, especially when my birthday fell in October, was therefore unusual. I took the letter into the conservatory where I had left my coffee when I heard the post arrive. I opened the envelope a little apprehensively, expecting bad news but hoping it was simply to tell me he was coming to London again.
It was neither.
My Dear Richard
It is with great sadness that I write. I understand that Belinda passed away recently and I wish to pass on our sincerest condolences. I heard this heartbreaking news from a colleague who in turn discovered from Colin Ingram, you may remember him.
Had I known then I would have contacted you earlier but I fully understand that you and the children will have been under a lot of strain and grief.
Although I only met Belinda once, I told Nazira on my return from England that she was a beautiful and caring lady, who obviously adored you and your children.
Her passing will have been unbearable for you and it is with those thoughts in mind that I pass on Nazira’s utmost condolences with mine.
I felt awful.
It was an oversight that would be difficult to explain. Abby met Belinda when he was last i
n London and we had dinner together in an excellent halal restaurant in Chelsea. Abby was unable to bring his wife, Nazira, because of commitments with her job, but he and Belinda got on marvellously well and, of course, there was an open invitation for us both to visit Brunei on holiday whenever we could. It was one of the journeys Belinda had always wanted to take but when I had the time she wasn’t well enough – I had many regrets and not taking Belinda to Brunei was one of them.
Nazira is still enjoying her job but I think she may have allowed some of her frustration to show through recently because Major General Dato Aziz asked me whether she was after his appointment as Supreme Commander, and was she dissatisfied with being only his personal assistant!
The children are growing up far too quickly, even little, but now not so little, Leisha.
It was typical of Abby to introduce delicate humour after relating or commenting on some bad news; it was one of the reasons I adored him. He and Nazira had three children: Nadima fifteen, Ibrahim thirteen and little Leisha five, an admitted mistake, but nonetheless deeply loved like the other two. Nazira worked with the Royal Brunei Armed Forces in their Headquarters in Tutong. She was the PA to Major General Dato Haji Aziz bin Abdullah, the Supreme Commander, and had been in the post for a little under two years. Although an Islamic country, Brunei Darussalam, which had embraced Islam in the fifteenth century, was religiously to the left of centre, and females both single and married could work, drive, and shop without restriction. Wearing a scarf that covered their hair was a necessity but the accompanying face veil was not mandatory and few felt the need.
Richard, I do hope you do not mind if I use this letter of condolence to speak of another matter. It is the most secure means of communication as telephone calls are open to interception and e-mails read without you knowing who is reading them.
It is a matter of National importance I need to discuss with you but what it involves must wait until we can be face-to-face. Even then, we must be well away from others. I fully appreciate that your schedule will be full at such a sad time, but if you are able to come and see me then I can discuss this urgent matter with you.
Although Abby had heard about Belinda from a third party – Colin Ingram worked for a Singapore-based firm that dealt with ships’ maintenance and we had met three or four times – he obviously didn’t know that I had left Astek. If necessary, I had the time to respond to his request immediately, probably putting my time to better use than my plan to invade the Foreign Office.
May I suggest, Richard, that you ring me at home after six p.m. my time – after ten a.m. UK time – to tell me whether you can make it, and if so, when. You have my assurance that I will make all the necessary arrangements.
Once again, my dear friend, I am so, so sorry that you lost your lovely wife at such a young age. Our religious beliefs may be different but ultimately it is the same God, and each time I go to the mosque, I say a prayer for her and for you and the children.
I do hope we can meet soon,
Your dearest of friends,
Abby
I rang him thirty minutes after I’d read his letter and I tried to make sure the concern his request had generated wasn’t mentioned.
He sounded as though he was in the next room. I could hear little Leisha playing and chattering away in the background.
Expressing his sympathy again for my loss, his tone didn’t even hint that I was in the wrong for not letting him know, but I was sure that would come later. He was surprised, but nonetheless pleased, that I could drop everything and leave for Brunei at his convenience. He thought a week’s stay would suffice.
I quickly checked St Edward’s forecast-of-events and saw that if I left almost immediately I could be back before the next planned exeat, quietly hoping that the headmaster didn’t have another attack of altruism. Abby told me that he would ring back with the flight details, explaining that it was all at his expense, including the hotel bills. Although Abby had a large house with ample room to put up guests, he suggested the arrangement we had come to many years earlier should remain. I would be far happier, according to him, in a first-class hotel rather than having to fight for things with his three children. I would have been happy with either but there were times when even Abby and I had to accept that there were cultural differences.
Ironically, if he ever came to Leicestershire, he would stay with me at Blue-Ridge and we would pop down to The Nevill Arms in the village for a pint or three. Abby was quite adaptable.
I rang St Edward’s immediately and let them know I would be out of the country again for a week to ten days, and gave Charles and Elizabeth as their immediate contacts, who were my next port of call.
A phone call would have been insufficient.
I could guarantee I would meet with disapproval from Elizabeth. She had never been happy that I had spent weeks out of the country and away from Belinda and the twins. We had never actually discussed the matter but Elizabeth had the ability to communicate without saying anything. Belinda had told me to ignore her, but Elizabeth’s opinion merely added to my already rabid conscience. I knew I shouldn’t be thinking like that, especially after Elizabeth’s confession to me in the kitchen the previous Sunday, but I suppose in a way I still resented her reluctant acceptance of me as the bridge between her and her grandchildren.
It was with apprehension therefore that I parked in front of their house and rang the bell. There was no reply. I checked my watch and saw it was nearly one o’clock. Sometimes they went out for lunch during the week but not normally on a Wednesday. I rang the bell again – nothing. The curtains were open at the front of the house but other than that there was no sign of life. I crunched across the gravel to the garage and peered in through the frosted glass. I could see the outline of a car. Their house was within walking distance of the town centre and sometimes, on a nice day, Charles chose to ignore his ever-painful hip which allowed them to take a slow stroll into town.
I tried the side-gate between the garage and the house, thinking they might be in the garden although I couldn’t hear them, but it was locked. Elizabeth had never liked to leave a key anywhere meaning there was no way I could get into the house. I had a key but it was on Belinda’s key ring that I kept in the hall table drawer but hadn’t thought to pick it up, never having had to use it before.
I was worried.
They hadn’t said they were going to be away and even if they were, the curtains would have been drawn. Their house couldn’t be seen from the road, being protected by some rather tall but unobtrusive Leylandii. Anybody wanting to see the house would have had to pass through the gates. The gravel added further security.
I stood outside the house for a few more minutes in the hope that they would return but, when they didn’t, I decided to go back to Blue-Ridge and pick up Belinda’s keys. Turning left out of the drive, in the rear-view mirror I saw a car, which materialised into a taxi, turn into the drive from the other direction.
I pulled into the side to execute a tight three-point turn. Charles was paying the taxi driver as I parked next to it. He gave me a weak smile of acknowledgement, accompanied by a slight raising of his hand. He looked drawn and tired, and his shoulders were unusually slumped. I didn’t need anything else to tell me that something had happened to Elizabeth.
The taxi reversed out of the drive and Charles indicated that I should follow him into the house. He went into the kitchen and flopped onto one of the farmhouse chairs.
He looked up at me with watery and tired eyes. Despondency had replaced his usual brusque military manner.
“Elizabeth has had a stroke,” he said, his bottom lip quivering. “Yesterday afternoon, found her in the garden when I got back from the Golf Club.”
I sat down opposite him at the kitchen table. “Charles, I’m so sorry.”
“Me too. Sorry I didn’t let you know. Didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily until …” He lifted his hand to his face to cover his embarrassment as tears flowed down his cheeks. �
�Don’t know … what to do,” he said croakily. “She’s always been there. She’d … she’d tell me what to do if she could.”
I could hear in his words exactly the ones I had expressed to myself about Belinda. I reached across the table and covered his other hand. He didn’t take it away. “Is it bad?”
“Don’t … know. Never can tell … with strokes.” He took his hand away from his face and looked imploringly at me. “What am I going to do? She’s my life.”
“She’s a fighter, Charles, she’s one strong lady.” I squeezed his hand.
“Came home to get her some things. Went with her in the ambulance yesterday,” he said in a more controlled voice.
“Didn’t they give you any indications?”
He shook his head. “Time will tell, maybe in a day or two. It might take weeks, even months.”
“I see.”
“Can’t talk, left-hand side gone: face, arm, leg, everything. Conscious, eyes very bright but scared. What am I going to do?”
“You are going to get together what she needs and then I’m going to drive you back to the hospital. While you’re sorting her things out I’ll make us a cup of tea. What do two Englishmen do at a time like this other than have a cup of tea?”
His smile was tinged with obvious sadness.
Elizabeth was in a private hospital on the outskirts of Leicester. She had her own comfortably decorated and furnished room. There was a lovely view over the fields from her window but that was of little use to her at present.
She was lying on her back, her head propped up on at least three pillows, and looked peaceful, or as peaceful as the tubes and monitors allowed her to be. She was either asleep or dozing when Charles and I entered the room, and she didn’t seem to sense our presence. The ward sister wasn’t able to add anything to what Charles had already been told.
Pooh Bridge: conscience stricken Page 13
