Separation, The (12 page)

Jack’s face revealed little. He remained hands on hips, looking awkward, shifting slightly from foot to foot, in scuffed, open-toed house sandals.

She stood. ‘It’s bad news, isn’t it.’

‘Not great. That was a police messenger. They think the government offices in Ipoh are going to be targeted. All staff and paperwork are moving to the rest house. It’ll be cramped, but they can’t ignore the threat.’

‘My girls will be okay?’

He nodded. ‘Sure. But my meeting’s been cancelled. The boss won’t go near the office until the all-clear.’

Her face fell.

‘No, I didn’t mean that. I’ll still take you, Lyddy. No problem. Just that we’ll go straight to the rest house and not into town to the offices. And it’ll have to be quite a bit sooner. Tomorrow in fact.’

He looked forlorn but her heart leapt. She didn’t want to hurt him and felt torn, but she was going to be with her girls, and very soon. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Tomorrow. She opened her locket and lingered over their faces. She’d missed them so much. Tears welled up as she turned to him again.

‘Thank you. Thank you so much. Sorry to be a bother.’

‘You’re never that,’ he said.

She took the hand he held out, kissed his fingertips, searched his face. Felt a surge of longing, but looked down and let go of his hand.

‘Nothing has changed, has it?’ he said, then pulled up a rattan armchair and collapsed into it.

‘I’m sorry. You know I have to give it a go with Alec. For the sake of the girls.’ She bit her lip. ‘Maybe one day.’

‘One day I may be gone.’

‘Oh, Jack.’ She went to stand behind him. He leant the back of his head against her stomach. She wrapped her arms round his middle, kissed the side of his neck, bit his ear.

He sat very still.

She ran her fingers through the hairs on his chest.

‘Well, at least the rest house was fairly empty,’ he said, too brightly. ‘So there’s enough space for the influx. Everyone’s there. They’re having a knees-up tonight to cheer everyone up. Should be quite a bash.’

‘We still have tonight,’ Lydia said. She came round to kneel, put a hand on his groin and looked into his eyes. Buried there she saw deep-seated hurt, too far for her to reach, and, she felt certain, not purely of her making. She tried to connect.

‘Best not,’ he said, removing her hand. ‘Early start in the morning.’

How times have changed, she thought, and couldn’t help but feel sad, remembering the thrill when they first met.

Funnily enough, just like Alec, she’d met him at a party. He came through the door, grinned at some other acquaintance, but then caught her eye as he scanned the room. She’d been at her best, in a black cheongsam with orange and gold flowers and a high split up the side, the black contrasting brilliantly with her pale skin. She’d had too much gin and flushed when he came across, Cicely by his side.

‘Look after him, darling. I need to mingle.’ And Cicely had winked at them both.

Alec was there too, huddled in a group of smoking, drinking men, his back resolutely turned. In another room, she and Jack danced for much of the night, ignoring the risks involved. As she waited in the hall for Alec as the party was wrapping up, Jack had come over, pushed a strand of her hair behind her left ear, bitten the lobe, then slipped a warm palm inside the slit of her skirt.
From then on, the heady mix of his sweat and the scent of her Shalimar brought the memory to life. He’d whispered something and she shivered from the warmth of his breath on her neck. Blotches came out on her chest. Too much to drink. Cigarettes. Desire. And with added risk, she was hooked.

‘Where? When?’ he asked.

‘In the park,’ she said, spotting Alec from the corner of her eye. ‘There’s a tea room. Nine-thirty tomorrow morning.’

‘A morning girl eh?’

‘Not really. It comes from having two kids to drop off at school.’

With a shake of her head, she let the memory go. Things had changed. Back then, to be so close, but not touching, would have been unthinkable.

Now, as it began to thunder, Jack went to sleep in his own bedroom, and Lydia joined Maz in the spare room.

‘Will you tell me a story?’ Maz said, and snuggled under the sheet. ‘Please.’

‘Do you know the one about the crocodile who ate a clock?’

His eyes widened. ‘Did it kill him?’

‘It didn’t. But it did scare Captain Hook.’

‘Who was he?’

‘Captain Hook was a pirate.’

Maz gave a sigh of enjoyment.

Once she’d told the tale of Peter Pan, Lydia felt the thundery air press down on her, and found it hard to drop off. The jungle night erupted with screeching cicadas outside her bedroom window, and in the distance, the desolate howl of wild dogs. She pulled the thin cotton sheet up to her nose. The sounds outside distorted, merged with others, became a booming, heaving, night-time racket. Wide awake, she heard the flapping wings of birds, the hum of the generator, and the bleak hooting Emma always said was lonely ghost birds.

She ached for her girls. It was for the best they were leaving,
and as for her one night with Jack, she forced herself to stuff down her guilt. It had been only once after all.

The next morning they set off before dawn in the makeshift armoured car, Jack lifting Maznan from his bed, eyes still firmly closed. He gently laid the child on the back seat and across Lydia’s lap. A Malay policeman sat in the front. Though Maz slept soundly, Lydia had not slept a wink. On the plantation road the tall trees came into sight in the half light, and passing the squat workers’ building, she took in the bleakness. Nobody spoke.

She kicked off her shoes, hoping to relax. But Jack’s closeness, and the musky coal tar smell of him kept her tense.

‘Bear up, Lyd,’ he said, twisting his head to her as he drove along the boundary of the plantation. ‘Sleep if you can. It’s a fair way yet.’

She wanted to slip into their old ease, but there was a distance between them, and with the policeman there, her tongue was tied. In any case what more was there to say? She closed her eyes, and behind the lids her daughters played. She held out her arms for them, sniffed the talc on their skin and the apple fragrance of their hair. Fleur holding on and Emma spinning away and pulling her hand, impatience straining every muscle.
Come on, Mummy, hurry up.

She slipped into the bumpy rhythm of the car and slept deeply, only vaguely awakened once, by a slow down and flashlights at a police roadblock, and the dawn chorus in the forest.

After a couple of hours, when daylight unveiled a pale pink sky with plump round morning clouds, the abrupt halting of the car broke through her dreams. She felt sweat at the back of her neck and opened her eyes. They’d been waved down and Jack was outside gesturing at a Malay officer. At the sharp exchange of voices, she sprang to attention. She saw Jack hang his head for an instant and the two men walk heavily towards the car.

A chill ran up her spine. ‘Jack,’ she called from the window.

He cleared his throat and looked her full in the face. His blue eyes had turned the colour of muddy water and his face had a strange raw look.

‘Jack?’

The immediate woods were quiet. But it was a throbbing quiet, and from beyond the rest house came the hum of the jungle. She climbed out and stood barefoot on the tarmac. She covered her nose from a sharp smell of burning, eyes darting round for the source. Over to the right a plume of grey smoke rose in the pale morning sky.

She began to run. Jack too, the officer coming up behind.

‘Madam,’ he called. ‘Madam, you can’t. The site is out of bounds, dangerous. There’s nothing left.’ The man caught up with her and grasped her arm, the smell of saltfish on his breath.

She shrugged him off, unaware of Maz’s light footsteps following her.

Jack grabbed Maznan’s hand. He bent to speak to the child. ‘Stay with this man. Okay. Stay here.’

‘You will come back?’ Maz asked.

‘We’ll come back.’

Lydia ran on. ‘Why didn’t you see the smoke?’

‘I did, but there was no way of knowing what it was.’

In the woods they ran through tunnels of green, stumbling over snaking roots and colliding with low-hanging branches. At each dead end, they turned back, through mushrooming smoke trapped under the great canopy of trees, and tried again, until they found the driveway and the signpost for the
Governmental Rest House
. They ran up the drive to a large colonial building, dark with soot, its roof collapsed, smoke still rising through the black rafters and a stink of combustion coming from inside. A constable guarded the entrance.

Feet planted in ash, Lydia froze. Her vision blurred and her teeth chattered as if it were an English winter.

‘For Christ’s sake, Jack. Ask him if the girls got out.’

The officer overheard her. ‘I’m sorry, but they found no survivors, madam.’

She looked again at the remains of the building. She felt distanced, as if she was somewhere on the outside looking in. She blinked rapidly, sank to her knees, and gathered a handful of gritty ash. Jack came to squat beside her and attempted to wipe her dirt-smudged face.

‘Get off. Get the fuck off.’

She felt her stomach turn over. She heard Maz sob somewhere behind them, and turned towards him with a confused look. Jack tried to cradle her. She came to life, jerked into action, pushed Jack off, and ran past the startled officer, into the charred building.

Millions of particles of white dust danced in unexpected shafts of light. Further in, the smell caught in her throat. Rafters still smouldered and there seemed to be no oxygen in the air. She stood still, twisting her head from side to side, hearing the thud of blood in her ears and a strange hissing sound. Which way? She began to run. What if they’d hidden in a cupboard, or a bathroom? They might still be there. Might still be safe. She struggled through the building looking for their hiding place. Skeletal metal and broken glass blocked her path. She ducked and dived, her own safety irrelevant. She stopped only to gasp for breath, the voices of her children in her head.
Mummy! Mummy!
She didn’t feel her feet seared by burning embers.

Jack was calling from somewhere inside the building. An idea surfaced. They might have run outside and hidden in the woods, might still be there, frightened, waiting. She followed a source of light and crawled out. On all fours, she shouted into the trees, but the harder she looked the more moving shadows she saw.

‘Emma, Fleur. Where are you? It’s Mummy.’

Jack fell out of another back exit, found her and tried to lead her away. ‘Lyd, there’s nothing we can do.’

Still on hands and knees, she panted like a dog and fought him off. Her throat closed as she opened her mouth, unaware of her own silent scream, hands flapping at the air and her eyes huge with shock. The trees blurred. Rooted to the spot she heard beating wings, Jack speaking, and another man’s voice in the distance. In her mind’s eye she saw the yellow flames move through the building, hissing, crackling. Saw the heavy black smoke slip under their doorway followed by curling flames. Saw the looks of terror in her daughters’ eyes. Breathed their agony and smelt her own babies’ burning flesh.
Mummy! Mummy!
Her mind went flat and empty, her legs gave way and she sat back on the ground cross-legged, skirt bunched up.

Beside her, a child’s teddy bear with melted plastic eyes gazed up, its fur black with soot. She held it, rocked it in her arms, and through swollen stinging eyes, looked past the roof at the sudden brilliance of a sharp Malayan sky. Her last image was of the ground racing up as she bent forward, then she slipped backwards into the sky.

I imagined Mr Oliver lying dead on the bedroom floor, and longed for Billy to come. I had a wee in the corner, then comforted myself by thinking of him. He usually appeared and disappeared quickly, all part of his ambition to be a magician. He was building up the props he needed, bit by bit, and had already got a top hat and a pack of cards. I’d promised to help him make a black cape with silver stars and a purple lining. Mum had taught me how to use a needle and thread and it couldn’t be all that hard.

Billy’s ambition was something I understood. I practised stories on him and in return, he tried magic tricks on me. I gulped back a sob. It would take more than a magic trick to get me out of the fix I was in.

It got dark, the damp mouldy smell of the barn filling up the air. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the barn bursting with shiny leaves and ferns, and bright blue birds flying through the air. But all I could think of was Mr Oliver’s furious face and his bloody neck and hands.

When I woke I didn’t remember where I was, until the memory of what happened punched me in the stomach. I was thirsty but there was nothing to drink, so I curled up in a corner of the barn instead, and buried my head in my hands until I heard the voices of Father and Veronica. Then I made myself tiptoe to the edge and peered over to make certain it was them. Three faces stared up. They must have forced Billy to tell, because he was at the bottom of the ladder too, red faced, the corners of his mouth held down in a scowl.

I backed down the ladder and stood itching and scratching at the bottom. Billy hung his head, wouldn’t look at me, just sniffed
and wiped his nose on his holey jumper. I glanced at Dad. With a stiff look about the face, his hands were bunched in fists. I was so scared I peed myself and felt warmth spread down my inside thigh. My father saw the dark stain appear on my skirt, and his mouth became a hard straight line.

Veronica knelt down, curls untidy, face as white as ash and her eyes pink. She spoke gently. ‘Emma. Tell us what happened. Why did you do it?’

If Mum was like fire, she was like water, gentle and sweet, but I couldn’t speak.

My father took over. ‘For heaven’s sake, child, cat got your tongue? Whatever possessed you to stab Mr Oliver?’

I hung my head.

‘Well, all I can say is, you’re lucky Sidney hasn’t gone to the police.’

At least he’s not dead, I thought.

‘Don’t think you’re getting off scot-free,’ Dad said, and took me by the elbow.

Back home, he marched me up to my bedroom, then locked the door. It wasn’t fair. Mr Oliver should be the one in trouble, not me. I opened my mouth to say, but the thought of saying the words made me feel sick.

‘You’ll stay in your room,’ Dad called out from the landing, and slammed his fist against the door.

I tensed, afraid of what might happen next. Was it my fault? Had I done something to make it happen?

After a bit, Veronica brought up a tray of Bournvita and two Cadbury’s orange sandwich biscuits. My eyes filled with tears.

She leant close and patted my leg. ‘Don’t cry. Sidney isn’t badly hurt. It looks worse than it is. Bit like your dad – bark worse than his bite. It’ll be all right.’

I noticed her narrow wrist bones and small white hands. She’d changed into a dress with yellow flowers and sort of fixed her hair, but the pins were loose and the lines on her face showed. I felt an ache in my throat. I wanted to ask her how it would be all
right, but didn’t dare. I knew she was being kind – more than I deserved – but it could never be all right ever again.

They moved Fleur’s bed out of the room. I was to sleep alone. Gran crept up while Dad was out, unlocked the door ever so quietly and padded into the room, her finger to her lips. Then she sat on the bed beside me and gave me a cuddle. A beam of sunlight shone on her, and I saw how old and worn she was, her face a mass of wrinkles bunching up. I hung my head. She was so small and it was all my fault.

‘Emma, my duck. Tell me what happened?’

She’d spoken very quietly and I felt tears welling again. I wanted to say, but the words just stuck.

Gran handed me two bars of Cadbury’s. ‘Make them last, my love. And be sure not to tell your dad.’

‘What’s going to happen, Gran?’

She nodded and tightened the strings of her apron. Somehow the tighter it went the more baggy looking she was.

‘They’re looking for a boarding school for you.’

My face fell. ‘Dad and Granddad?’

‘No, dear. Your father and Veronica. Very concerned for your welfare, she is. Lucky for you she’s not a bit cross about her brother.’

I frowned. What did that mean? Did she know what her brother was like? If she suspected him, maybe things wouldn’t be so bad for me.

I sniffed and looked in Gran’s deep blue eyes. ‘Why does he hate me?’

‘Who, dear?’

‘Dad. Why does he hate me?’

Gran looked flustered and stood up to smooth out her apron. She sighed and I thought she was going to cry.

‘It’s not you, dear, but there are things you don’t understand.’

‘What things?’

‘Maybe when you’re older, sweetheart … now, ducks, you
must eat humble pie for a bit. Your father has a lot of worries and he’s doing his best. Never forget that. Make sure not to cheek him and everything will turn out all right. I promise. But, Em, dear, you must learn to curb that temper. Do you promise?’

I hung my head, but her words made me think. Was my father as bad as I made out, or, like a baddy in one of my stories, had I invented a character for him? Was it me who was wrong and not him at all? And how did anyone ever know who was really right? That question bothered me more than I can say.

‘Well, the proof of the pudding …’ Gran said, and looked at me with a funny expression, then kissed me on the forehead. ‘Good girl. Now remember, not a word. I’ll put the radio on in the kitchen, so you don’t feel too lonely. It’s
Music While You Work
now, but maybe Lonnie Donegan will be on
Pick of the Pops
.’

I smiled wanly. ‘Or Bill Hayley.’

‘That’s the spirit. I’ll turn it up so you can hear. All right, ducks?’

‘Can Fleur come up and play snakes and ladders?’

‘Oh, Fleur’s going, my dear, for a little while, staying with Veronica while your father sorts things out. She’s taking her to the optician on Tuesday.’

My heart sank. What about her birthday? Fleur and I weren’t especially close but we were sisters and I supposed I loved her. It had never occurred to me before that Mr Oliver might do to her what he’d done to me. Surely Father would notice if anything was wrong? He hadn’t noticed with me, but Fleur was his favourite and I sometimes even wondered if Fleur missed Mum.

Before Gran went downstairs I asked her if Mum was ever going to come.

‘I don’t know, dear. Only what you know. Just what your dad says.’

‘But why would she take so long?’

Gran shrugged, said she couldn’t remember, and even Dad didn’t know. I groaned and stretched out on my bed.

Gran called Fleur up.

‘I’ll leave you two to say goodbye,’ she said, when Fleur came in, and left the door ajar.

I looked up at Fleur who stood just inside the door, shuffling her feet. I asked if she missed Mum. She said she had Veronica and Granny, so what was the point. Her answer bothered me.

‘Mealy, don’t you love Mummy? Don’t you long for the long grass?’

Fleur wasn’t speaking. I had to wait. I’d learnt to wait. First, when she was small and couldn’t catch up, then when she was slow to learn to talk. Now I waited because it took her time to say what she meant.

‘I do, Em. I do.’

‘But you don’t cry.’

She bit her lip.

I stood up and stared at her. ‘But don’t you remember the island, Fleur?’

She shook her head.

‘But you must. How can you forget?’ I saw the silvery coastline of our island holidays. ‘You must remember when jellyfish stung Mummy? And how we had to watch where we put our feet.’

Fleur hung her head and wouldn’t look up.

‘You remember the coconut trees, don’t you? And how you were scared of the breakers.’

‘I wasn’t scared,’ she said in a small voice.

‘So you do remember! I knew you did. When Dad and I ran in and out, you made sandcastles and Mum swam nude.’

‘Shut up, Emma. Stop it. Stop going on about Mummy.’ She ran from the room and slammed the door.

I didn’t go after her, even though I heard her sobbing in the bathroom, and it was me who’d made her cry.

After a while, I decided I wanted all my favourite things with me, if I was to be sent away. I got out my box of treasures and built a pile. My notebook, for observations, some old black beads of Mum’s, a lovely purple and orange marble and my bristle hair brush. I had to brush my hair a hundred times each day. Most
precious was my fountain pen, and bottle of Quink. At school we used a horrid wooden pen. It had a scratchy metal nib with a slit at the end. You had to dip it into a little inkwell in the desk every few words and it dripped, so all my work ended up covered in blots.

I sat cross-legged on the floor and poked at my stuff, tears prickling the back of my lids. There was a sound in the hall. Dad. I threw everything in, dumped the box in the wardrobe, and noticed a pink rabbit ear sticking out from where it had got lost beneath a tartan blanket. I pulled the rabbit out to give to Fleur to take to Veronica’s, and made an effort to hold my face like a well-behaved little girl.