Coming Home (140 page)

The taxi was turning into the forecourt of the hotel, drawing up in the shade of the deep awning. They went indoors, into the long foyer lined with flowering shrubs in pots and glass-fronted display cabinets containing very beautiful and costly jewellery: gold necklaces and bracelets, sapphire and diamond brooches and earrings, and ruby and emerald rings.

‘Gus, you said you had a date.’

‘I have.’

‘Who with?’

‘Wait and see.’ Behind the reception desk stood a Sinhalese clerk. ‘Does Kuttan still work here?’

‘But of course, sir. He is in charge of the restaurant.’

‘I wonder if I could have a word. I shan't keep him a moment.’

‘Can I say who wishes to see him?’

‘Captain Callender. A friend of Colonel Cameron's. Gordon Highlanders.’

‘Very good. If you would like to wait out on the terrace, perhaps?’ He indicated the direction with a fragile brown hand. ‘Would you like refreshment? Iced coffee or a drink from the bar?’

Gus turned to Judith. ‘What would you like?’

‘Lemonade, please.’

‘Lemonade for the lady and a beer for me.’

‘Very good, sir.’

They walked on down the polished marble floor of the foyer and out onto the terrace, Gus leading the way, choosing a table, arranging the cane chairs. Following, she wondered at his coolness, his detachment, his air of authority that was inbred and so could never be destroyed. He had not only survived the Burma Railway, but survived, it seemed, with some style. His rags of uniform looked, on him, neither comical nor odd, simply because he wore them with such pride. But there was something more. An inner strength that was palpable, but formidable as well. She found this a little daunting. Sooner or later, she was going to have to tell him about Loveday. In olden days, bearers of bad news quite often had their heads cut off. She decided that she would not volunteer any information until he actually asked the question.

Sitting out on the terrace, their drinks were brought to them. Some children, with watchful amahs in attendance, were swimming in the pool. The breeze rattled the leaves of the palms, and at the end of the garden, beyond the ornamental balustrade, lay the sea.

Gus said, ‘It's just the same. It hasn't changed.’

‘You were here?’

‘Yes, on our way out to Singapore. I came in a troop-ship, via Cape Town, with a few other chaps from the regiment. We stopped off here for four days, and then caught another boat on. It was a particularly riotous time. Parties and pretty girls.’ He said again, ‘A good time.’

‘Captain Callender.’

They had not heard him come, but now he was there. Gus rose to his feet. ‘Kuttan.’ He stood, beaming, his white tunic embellished with the red silk epaulettes that were his badge of office; his hair neat and oiled, his superb raj-style moustache immaculately barbered. He held in his left hand a silver tray, on which stood a bottle of Black & White whisky.

‘I could not believe my ears, my God, when I was told that you were here. That you are safe and alive.’

‘It's good to see you, Kuttan.’

‘And you. God is very good. You have come on the ship from Rangoon?’

‘Yes. We sail this afternoon.’

‘I shall watch your ship sail out into the sea. At dark, all the lights will be on. Very pretty. I shall watch you go home.’

‘I shall be thinking of you, Kuttan.’

‘And this is Colonel Cameron's bottle of Black and White that he asked me to keep for him. I have had it, under lock and key, all this time.’ He looked about him. ‘Colonel Cameron is not with you?’

‘He died, Kuttan.’

The old man stared, with sad dark eyes. ‘Oh, Captain Callender, that is very bad news.’

‘I didn't want to leave Colombo without letting you know.’

‘I have never forgotten the days when you stayed here. And Colonel Cameron. A fine gentleman.’ He looked at the whisky bottle. ‘I was so sure he would come back to get this, as he promised. He paid for it, that last night. He said, “Kuttan, you keep for me. On ice. We will celebrate again on our way home.” And now, he is not coming.’ He took the bottle off the tray, and set it down on the table. ‘So you must take it.’

‘I didn't come for the whisky, Kuttan. I came to see you.’

‘I am very grateful. Are you going to come to the restaurant for lunch?’

‘I think not. I don't have the time to appreciate your delicious food, nor, I'm afraid, at the moment, the stomach for it.’

‘You have been ill?’

‘I'm all right now. Kuttan, you're a busy man. I mustn't keep you from your duties.’ He held out his hand. ‘Goodbye, old friend.’ They shook hands. And then Kuttan stepped back, placed his palms together, and salaamed with much affection and respect.

‘God take care of you, Captain Callender.’

When he had gone, Gus sat down again, and looked at the bottle of whisky. He said, ‘I shall have to find some sort of bag or basket to put it in. I can scarcely be observed by all the jocks, carrying it on board
Orion.
It wouldn't do at all.’

‘We'll find something,’ Judith promised him. ‘You can take it back to Scotland with you.’

‘Coals to Newcastle.’

‘What will happen when you get home?’

‘Not quite sure. Report to HQ in Aberdeen, I suppose. Medical check-ups. Leave.’

‘Were you very ill?’

‘No more than anyone else. Beriberi. Dysentery. Sores and boils. Pleurisy, malaria, cholera. They reckon about sixteen thousand Brits died. The men who came ashore today are outnumbered, by three to one, by the others we had to leave on board.’

‘Do you hate to talk?’

‘What about?’

‘Singapore, and how it all began. I had a last letter from my mother…but it didn't really tell me anything, except confusion and chaos.’

‘That's pretty much how it was. The day after Pearl Harbor, the Japanese invaded Malaya. The Gordons were manning the coastal defences, but at the beginning of January, we were moved up-country, into Malaya, and joined an Australian brigade. But we didn't stand a hope in hell, and by the end of January, we'd retreated back over the Causeway onto Singapore Island. But it was a doomed campaign, indefensible without air power, and we only had about a hundred and fifty aircraft, because a large part of the RAF were fighting in North Africa. And then there were the refugees. The place was clogged with them. We were sent to do rear-guard action at the Causeway. We held our positions for three or four days, but it was with rifle and bayonet, since we ran out of artillery shells in no time. There was some sporadic talk of trying to escape, get out, to Java or somewhere, but it was only rumour. Then, a week after entering Singapore, the Japanese reached the reservoirs that supplied all the fresh water. There were at least a million people in the city, and the Japs turned off the taps. That was it. Capitulation.’

‘What happened to you then?’

‘We got put into Changi. It wasn't too bad, and the guards were fairly reasonable. I got on a working party, sent out into the streets to repair bomb damage. I got quite good at scrounging supplies and extra rations. I even sold my watch for Singapore dollars, and used them to bribe one of the guards into posting a letter to my mother and father, but I don't know if he ever did, or whether they ever got it. I suppose I'll never know now. As well, he brought me paper and pencils, a drawing-block, and I managed to keep them filled and hidden for the next three and a half years. A sort of record. But not one for human consumption.’

‘Have you still got them?’

Gus nodded. ‘On board. With my new toothbrush and my new bar of soap, and a last letter from Fergie Cameron that I have to deliver to his widow.’

‘What happened next, Gus?’

‘Well, we stayed in Changi for about six months, and then the word went round that the Japanese had built wonderful camps for us up in Siam. The next thing we knew, we were all put in steel cattle trucks, travelling north to Bangkok for five days and nights. Thirty of us to each truck, so there was no space to lie down. It was ghastly. We had one cupful of rice each and one cup of water a day. By the time we got to Burma, many of us were really ill, and some had died. At Bangkok we all fell out of the cattle trucks, weak with relief that the ordeal was over. What we didn't know was that it was only just beginning.’

The children had stopped swimming, and been ushered, by their amahs, indoors for tiffin. The pool lay still. Gus picked up his glass and downed the last of his beer. ‘That's all,’ he said. ‘No more. Full stop.’ Across the table, he sent her the ghost of a smile. ‘Thank you for listening.’

‘Thank you for telling.’

‘No more about me. I want to hear about you.’

‘Oh, Gus, it's pale by comparison.’

‘Please. When did you join the Wrens?’

‘The day after Edward was killed.’

‘That was grim. I wrote to the Carey-Lewises. I was in Aberdeen then, after St Valéry. I wanted so much to go and see them, but there was never the time nor the opportunity before I sailed for Cape Town.’ He frowned, remembering. ‘You bought Mrs Boscawen's house, didn't you?’

‘Yes. After she died. It was lovely. I'd always adored the house. It meant I had a home. Biddy, Bob Somerville's wife, came and shared it with me. And Phyllis, who used to work for my mother. And her little girl, Anna. They're still there.’

‘Is that where you'll return to?’

‘Yes.’

She waited. He said it, ‘And Nancherrow?’

‘Just the same. Except that Nettlebed has stopped being the butler and become the gardener. He still buttles, of course, and brushes the Colonel's tweeds, but he's much more interested in his runner beans.’

‘And Diana? And the Colonel?’

‘Unchanged.’

‘Athena?’

‘Rupert was wounded in Germany. Invalided out of the Royal Dragoons. They're all living in Gloucestershire now.’

She waited. ‘And Loveday?’

He was watching her. She said, ‘Loveday's married, Gus.’

‘Married?’ His expression became one of total incredulity. ‘Loveday? Married. Who did she marry?’

‘Walter Mudge.’

‘The boy with the horses?’

‘That's right.’

‘When?’

‘In the summer of 1942.’

‘But…
why?
’

‘She thought you were dead. She was utterly convinced that you'd been killed. There was no word from you, and no news. Just silence. She just gave up.’

He said, ‘I don't understand.’

‘I don't know if I can explain. But after St Valéry, she had this sort of premonition, this revelation that you were alive. And you were. You came back. You weren't killed then, and you weren't taken prisoner. It…it made her believe that there was some sort of tremendously strong telepathy between the two of you. After Singapore, she tried it again, thinking about you incredibly hard, and waiting for some sort of sign, or message from you. That you weren't dead, but alive. And none came.’

‘I could scarcely ring up on the telephone.’

‘Oh, Gus, you have to try to understand. You know what Loveday's like. Once she's got an idea, a conviction in her head, she's immovable. In some strange way, she convinced us all.’ She qualified this. ‘At least, she convinced Diana and the Colonel.’

‘But not you?’

‘I was in the same boat. I had family in Singapore, and no news. But I went on hoping, because I knew that hope was all I had left. I went on hoping for
you,
until the day she got married, and after that there didn't seem to be much point.’

‘Is she happy?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I asked, is she happy?’

‘I think so, though I haven't seen her for quite a long time. She's got a baby, Nathaniel. He'll be three in November. She lives in a cottage on Lidgey farm. Oh, Gus, I'm sorry. I've been dreading telling you. But it's happened, a fact of life. There's no point in lying to you.’

He said, ‘I thought she would wait for me.’

‘You mustn't be angry with her.’

‘I'm not angry.’ But, all at once, he looked desperately worn and tired. He put a hand to his face, rubbed it over his eyes. She thought of him going home, going back to Scotland, to nothing. No parents, no family. No Loveday.

She said, ‘We must keep in touch, Gus. Whatever happens, we
must
keep in touch. I'll give you my address, and you must give me yours so that I can write to you.’ She thought about this, and realised that they were both singularly ill equipped. She got to her feet. ‘I'll go and get some paper and a pen from somewhere. And scrounge something for you to hide your whisky bottle in. Wait here, I shan't be a moment.’

She left him sitting alone. Went back indoors, paid the bar-bill, and was given a hefty brown paper bag in which to conceal the bottle of Black & White. After that, she made her way to the bridge-room, where she stole a couple of sheets of hotel writing-paper from a desk, and as well, a pencil. When she returned to Gus, she saw that he had not moved. He sat as she had left him, his eyes fixed on the indistinguishable line, between two different shades of blue, that was the horizon.