Separation, The (23 page)

I was down in the dumps about Granny, and though it was a beautiful day, there was still a chill. It was April now, and the first person I saw, after a weekend at home, was Sister Ruth. She was kind of hovering in the hall, and, with a furtive look over her shoulder, she clutched hold of my arm, then led me back outside.

‘I have some information,’ she said, squinting in the sunlight, and glancing across the cracked and clumpy winter-damaged grounds. ‘Promise you didn’t get it from me.’

Taken aback, I nodded.

She flushed bright pink. ‘Meet me in the garden after lunch, behind the rhododendrons, down by the woods.’

It cheered me up. Sister Ruth was straight as a die. All this ‘meet me in the library with a candlestick’ wasn’t her at all. But it was the sort of thing I loved.

After lunch I found the place and waited for Sister Ruth, wondering what demanded such secrecy. A couple of girls ran past without noticing me. It was a good spot for a meeting. The rhododendrons hid me from passing nosy parkers, and I even dodged Susan, which made me feel mean.

Sister Ruth padded up, carrying a large wicker basket, and we picked our way down to the woods. I hadn’t been there since the night I spent alone. Today they looked innocent, shady, but with light patches where the sun shone through the new leaves.

‘Why the secrecy? And what’s the basket for?’

‘I’ll explain. The basket’s a ruse. I thought it made me look purposeful.’

I grinned at her.

‘How was your weekend at home?’ she asked, looking over her shoulder, head swivelling like a sherbet lolly on a stick.

‘Fine.’

She nodded. ‘Emma, what do you know about your mother? Lydia, isn’t it?’

I pulled a face. ‘That’s a peculiar question.’

‘I mean what do you know about her birth?’

I scuffed my heels in the dead leaves and gravel on the ground. ‘Not much. She was born in a convent and the nuns brought her up.’

‘She never spoke of her own mother.’

‘No. She only ever mentioned one of the sisters.’

‘Was the sister’s name Patricia?’

I thought for a moment. ‘I think it might have been.’

She held me at arm’s length, then glanced back at the school buildings. ‘Listen to me, Emma. On retreat this Easter, I met someone who knew Sister Patricia. Her name’s Brenda, and she was in the same convent as Sister Patricia for five years. St Joseph’s. Sadly Sister Patricia’s dead now.’

‘How do you know it was the same Sister Patricia?’

‘She said that before Sister Patricia died, she’d opened her heart and told her about a baby they’d named Lydia. Apparently she was present when the child was born.’

Sister Ruth tilted her head and gave me an encouraging nod. I heard my mother’s voice in my ear, as if she was talking only to me. Overwhelmed by how much I still missed my mum, I felt cold, despite the sun.

I shook myself out of it. ‘But who was she? The woman who gave birth. Did she die?’

Sister Ruth shook her head. ‘Brenda could only draw the first name out of the old sister, but from what she said, I don’t think the woman died.’

‘So?’

She gave me another smile and squeezed my hand. ‘Sister Patricia gave Brenda a painting. A miniature of the young woman who gave birth. I thought you should have it, though by rights I should really hand it in to the head to give to your father.’

I stared deep into the woods, where a trail of bluebells came to life in a shaft of sunlight.

Ruth shaded her eyes to look at me. ‘Let’s sit on the bench.’

She reached inside the folds of her habit and brought out a small painting. ‘Sister Patricia kept it all these years. Look, there are some initials in the bottom right hand corner.’

The hair was fairer, almost strawberry blonde, but my heart flipped over as I looked at my own mother’s eyes gazing out. Exactly the same hazel, flecked with blue and green, arched eyebrows, one fractionally higher than the other, the same oval shaped face, and same wide mouth. It sounds strange, but the picture brought back the scent of my mum. I could smell her skin and hair. See her standing in our old garden, a wave of butterflies, as big as birds, flying by, and the smell of tobacco smoke from Dad’s pipe where he sat reading
The
Straits Times
.

‘Lydia’s mother begged Sister Patricia to take care of the picture, and only give it to your mother on her eighteenth birthday. Well, your mother ran off when she was seventeen, and Sister Patricia never saw her again.’

I snorted. ‘That’s ridiculous. Couldn’t she have tried to trace her?’

Sister Ruth shook her head. ‘She wanted to, but the mother superior at the time said it was better to leave well enough alone.’

‘Surely the right thing would have been to find my mother. Or at least to try.’

‘She probably thought it
was
right at the time.’

I looked away. The bluebells were in shadow now, and despite the fine start, a line of grey clouds spread across the sky. I shook my head and stabbed my shoe in the slimy mud surrounding the bench, making zigzag patterns with the toe.

‘What was the date of the birth?’

‘The sixth of August nineteen twenty-four.’

The date made me catch my breath. ‘The sixth of August is my mother’s birthday. And she was born in nineteen twenty-four.’

Sister Ruth touched my cheek.

‘What was the woman’s name?’ I asked.

She grinned. ‘This is the best bit. It was Emma, but I’m afraid she didn’t know the surname.’

Could she really be talking about my mum’s mother? The woman my mum had never even known. I thought it over. A nun called Patricia, a baby called Lydia, with exactly the same birth date as my mum, and the woman’s name was Emma too. Mum always said I was named after her own mother. I was almost certain that I was holding a picture of my grandmother in my hand. The grandmother who, up until now, I had known nothing about.

Though everyone thought my mum was dead, I had never believed it, and now I wanted so much for Mum to see this picture of the woman I hoped was her mother. I didn’t want to go back inside, and have to do lessons, with this picture fizzing in my head. But the bell went, so I had no choice.

‘Thank you, Sister Ruth.’ I kissed her on the cheek, and ran back across the grass and into the building.

In the dorm, before I went to class, I looked at the picture again. The woman did look so like Mum. I prayed that my mother was still alive, and as I did, I tasted sugared hibiscus flowers, heard the nightjar tok-tok birds, and the buzz of giant honey bees. Most of all I heard the sound of snakes slithering in the long grass behind our house.

Everyone said Malaya was a dangerous place, though it wasn’t danger that I remembered.

I remembered how beautiful it was in the evening, when the sky shone like gold, and behind the dark hills, the jungle waited. We were there when we had the crash and Mummy lost one of her lizard earrings with emerald eyes. I remembered, because it happened on our way home from a wedding. It was the day after Mum and Dad had a row, and the atmosphere was horrible.

And then we came to England.

I thought over my day. I’d been feeling down in the dumps, but now my heart thumped with hope. If I was lucky, and if she was
still alive, I might find my grandmother. Who could ever have imagined that? I snatched one last look at the picture. There were initials in the right hand corner. C.L.P. in black paint. My first task must be to find out who the artist was.

In the market, Lydia heard footsteps coming up hard behind her. Still unused to Malacca’s backstreets, she was doing her best to familiarise herself. Today she was in the outskirts of the Chinese quarter, hoping someone might provide a lead to Lili’s whereabouts. Her hair was frizzing in the damp, and she stopped outside a pawnshop to smooth it. As she peered in the window, she noticed a shadowy reflection among the cheap necklaces and pearls. She straightened her skirt.

‘Lydia.’

She spun round and there he was. In Western clothes, dark trousers, cream short-sleeved shirt, a gold chain glinting at his neck. He walked towards her, taking his time, head shaven and brown. He held out a hand.

She paused to search his face and gave him an uncertain smile. ‘Are you following me, Adil?’

‘Come with me. It will be worth your while.’

She frowned. The sun, reaching its height, beat down on her and she felt a flush of colour inch up her neck. He indicated the direction, and she let him lead her to a narrow alley, where the drone of traffic was less. He stopped outside a small coffee shop, with a blue and gold Arabic sign above the door.

Inside, they perched on uncomfortable stools in the far corner of the steamy bar, keeping their distance from the mah-jong players hunched up at the other end. He smiled at her. She acknowledged it, then picked up a copy of
The
Straits Times
someone had left behind.

‘Are you surprised George didn’t help you?’ he asked.

She looked up at his unlined forehead, took in the two strong lines that ran from the sides of a long nose to his full mouth.

‘What?’

He bent his head to one side, looked her straight in the face, then poured sweet aromatic coffee from an engraved brass pot, before speaking slowly. ‘I think we both know what I mean.’

She avoided his scrutiny. ‘How do you know George?’

Adil shrugged.

‘Well, in answer to your question, he didn’t help, and no, I suppose I wasn’t surprised. What’s it to you?’

He gave her a keen look.

Sun streamed through the single window, throwing a patch of white light on to the bar. She circled her temples with her fingertips to relieve the pressure, sensed his awareness of her too revealing neckline, the skin breaking out into familiar blotches. She’d never get used to the humidity.

For a moment neither spoke.

Adil scratched his chin and gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘I’m sorry about your friend. I know words are inadequate.’

She let out a slow breath.

‘It will get better,’ he said.

Her heart flipped over as Fleur and Emma’s faces flashed back, and she tried not to feel irritated.

‘Of course, you already know. I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t be kind to me … Anyway how did you hear about Jack, or the girls for that matter?’

He shrugged. ‘These things get around.’

She didn’t want to think of Jack now, but a Pat Boone song came on the wireless. It was a favourite of Jack’s, and an image of the first time she met him rushed into her mind. She shook her head.

‘Here’s the deal,’ Adil was saying. ‘No negotiation. Will you trust me?’

She rubbed away the moisture from her hairline, then drained
the remainder of her coffee. She wanted to ask for his help, but could she trust him? She wasn’t sure, though he’d been kind to her before. She felt hot and clumsy. A burst of sound from a lorry as it dropped its load in the street startled her, and the ruby red glass slipped from her hand.

‘Oh, Lord! Sorry.’

After the barman cleared up the splinters of glass, Adil looked serious. ‘Why exactly did you visit George?’ he asked.

‘Not that it’s any of your business but it was to ask questions. I got no answers. He insinuated I should take a break, for my nerves.’

‘Maybe he was right,’ Adil said with a half smile, and continued speaking with a touch of amusement in his voice. ‘Paddling upstream, birds circling up above, mangroves all around. There’s a lot to see. For instance, did you know mangrove trees grow their roots partly above the ground?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘You didn’t mention the mosquitoes or the sweltering heat.’

He grinned. ‘No, I suppose I didn’t. You’d have to watch out for the blue coral snake too. Highly venomous.’

‘Well, thanks for the sermon, but now tell me what
you
were doing at George’s place. I thought I saw you outside, the day I was there.’

‘I work for him. Well, sometimes. Mainly I –’

She burst in. ‘You work for George! Then why on earth should I trust you?’

‘Well, I used to work for him. Not any longer.’

Taken aback, her eyes widened. ‘You’re lying.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry you think that. I’ll tell you the story. But let’s get out of here.’

They got up and stood face to face. She felt light-headed. He realised and put out a hand to steady her, his eyes warm. Why hadn’t she remembered that warmth? Had she simply forgotten because he wasn’t white? He cupped his hand under her elbow and steered her through the narrow alley.

‘What about the park?’ he said. ‘Fresh air.’

On the way they passed through a pulsating world of Chinese shops. With precision he eased her past curtains of dried fish hanging across an alley. By the time they reached the park the crowds were sparse, and they strolled along a path between leafy trees, where black tree rats bolted up the trunks, to disappear in branches high above. At a quiet spot overlooking a small pond, and surrounded by pink hibiscus, she sat on the bench he indicated, the new shoes pinching her toes.

‘It signifies peace,’ he said, pointing at the hibiscus. ‘Peace and bravery.’

The sun was not much visible and, behind advancing clouds, a body of rain sat poised to fall over the city. She watched a peacock strut among the wild poppies, a feathered fantasy of bluey-green, and gold, where the remaining patch of sunlight lit its tail.

‘You smile,’ he said. ‘But that’s not a happy face.’

Feeling hot and sticky, she kicked off her court shoes and rotated her ankles. A prickly silence stretched between them.

She turned towards him. ‘You still haven’t said how you can help.’

‘I overheard a conversation he was having about the boy. Maznan.’

‘You mean George did know? I knew it. Patronising bastard. I’m sorry but I don’t like him.’ She slumped back on the bench, pressing fingers to her temples. ‘Why did he lie?’

His face was glum. ‘There are things I can’t say.’

‘Adil, if you know, please tell me.’

She held her breath while he paused for a moment before speaking.

‘I was waiting in the hall. He was on the phone in the office, but the door was open. I don’t know where the boy is yet, but there’s every reason to believe he is alive.’

Lydia pressed a palm to her heart and exhaled in relief. ‘That means so much to me. Thank you.’

A group of schoolgirls, in Emma and Fleur’s old school uniform of dark blue pinafores, crossed her line of sight. They dug each other in the ribs and giggled, then turned to stare at her and Adil. Her vision blurred and she closed her eyes. The feeling passed over and a light breeze from the pond broke through the heavy air.

He looked on, oblivious to their stares. ‘I’ll do what I can. Whatever I can to help. Once again I’m so very sorry about your friend Jack and your children. I know what it is to lose someone you love, but I do need you to trust me.’

She couldn’t catch her breath. Adil took her hand and squeezed it in a friendly way, as if to convince her of his good intentions. A green crested lizard ran right over her toes.

‘Did you see them?’ she said. ‘Those girls.’

‘It helps to develop selective vision.’

She enjoyed the brief sensation of his cool hands on her bare skin. After a moment she moved away.

‘Sorry,’ he said, his shoulders hunched. ‘Didn’t mean to overstep the mark.’

She shook her head and glanced up. A gloomy sky now, the first tepid drops of rain as big as Emma’s fist. She forced herself to think of something else.

‘What work did you do for George?’

‘Mainly undercover operations.’

She thought he looked uncomfortable. ‘Go on.’

‘I can’t really say. There’s a lot of corruption. The locals call Europeans the red-haired devil, you know. I sometimes think they’re right.’

She stood. Alec had told her that too. Sorry to be leaving, she touched his arm. ‘We’d better get going before the rain.’

He smiled back.

Her first impressions, all that time ago, had been wrong. He had seemed cold and distant, but then turned out to be kind. Now she sensed this was a man who felt deeply. She saw it in his eyes.

‘How do I get in touch with you?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll find you,’ he said.

She was shocked by how much she hoped he would.