Separation, The (26 page)

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.

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 gulped 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.

Lydia pushed herself up and paced about Adil’s apartment. She picked things up, looked at his books, tried to work out what the place revealed. She took a large illustrated text on Monet from shelves stuffed with records and books, mainly philosophical works and books on art, and flicked through it. In Adil’s absence, she thought about him too much. On the coffee table, a few neat models brought to life the animals of the jungle, and on the walls, large, heavily layered abstracts were interspersed with black and white photos of people.

Adil had left no indication of when he’d be back and didn’t call, so she made a light meal of toast and tinned sardines. The bread tasted stale and the tin of sardines was the only thing she found at the back of a cupboard, his fridge mainly containing soft drinks and a few bottled beers.

She thought of going back to Cicely’s house but wanted to see Adil again, so she sat in the window and watched the people passing by, noting how they dressed, the way they moved. When she dozed off, hair-swinging visions of Lili tormented her.

When Adil turned up after midnight, he found her sitting in the dark, paralysed with guilt, her face ashen.

‘Lydia?’

For a moment, she barely noticed him sit beside her. He took her hand and gently stroked her cheek. A dull rumble of traffic and the sound of a piano came from the street. She covered her face with her hands, then, feeling his breath on her neck, she cried.

He held her very close, their breathing in tune, but a blast of noise in the street broke up the moment.

He coughed, and she pulled away, feeling a little foolish. ‘Who painted the pictures?’ she asked, avoiding his eyes.

There was a pause.

‘Someone I used to know,’ he said at length. He seemed to be studying her face in the half-light. ‘I’m sorry it took so long. I have to tell you my news.’

Her feelings under control, she looked at him. ‘Is it good? Your news?’

‘I hope so …’

Veronica popped into my room to say she was off. I really wanted to talk to her before she went, but considered for a moment. If the school found out how I’d rifled through the files, more than a year before, I’d be in big trouble.

I took a breath, crossed my fingers, and smiled at her. Then I explained how I’d found out a solicitor was paying my fees.

‘So I wrote to him, but he said they couldn’t divulge the name, client confidentiality or something.’

I felt slightly nervous when she looked a bit dismayed.

‘I won’t tell your father, Emma,’ she said, ‘if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s not that. It’s just I thought
he
was paying.’

‘I thought it was Dad too, but Gran says he’s broke.’

She tilted her head to one side, narrowed her eyes and began to smile. ‘You thought it was me, didn’t you?’

I reddened.

‘That was the reason for the grilling you gave me that time, wasn’t it? About Freddy, my solicitor. I thought it was strange, your sudden interest in my legal concerns.’

I pulled a face.

‘Well, darling, it really isn’t me. But next time I see Freddy, I’ll ask if there is a way he can find out.’

‘Thanks.’

She gave my shoulder a squeeze and left.

Half an hour later I went out, humming. My collar up, I stared at the pavement as I walked, trying to get to one hundred without walking on a crack and disturbing the frighteners who hid in there.

I liked the quiet of the May half term holiday. It was nice in a
way, not knowing what would happen next, even though nothing much ever did. At school everything happened to a timetable, even down to when you brushed your teeth or went to the loo, and heaven help you if you hadn’t done a number two, because then they’d dose you with cod liver oil.

Between the tall trees lining the road, the wind was blowing wildly. I was counting, and didn’t see him approach from the shadows, only glanced up because there was the smell of smoky bacon coming from a house nearby.

‘Emma,’ he said, and made to walk past.

I caught his eye, and saw, behind him, the morning clouds were black and broken, with silver light in the gaps between.

‘Billy! Sorry, I didn’t see you.’

I was close enough to smell the shampoo he must have used. Peppermint. And close enough to see the way his frayed shirt collar stuck up at the back.

‘Thought you were ignoring me.’ He looked at the ground, and the tips of his ears turned red.

‘Don’t be daft. It’s just I was miles away.’

He shuffled from foot to foot. ‘How’s school?’

A moment from the past returned to embarrass me. The memory of undressing in front of him. He might have had the same thought, because his whole face turned red. In the uncomfortable silence, he laughed. ‘Fancy a trip to the barn?’ he said, though his voice sounded unnatural. ‘For old times’ sake.’

As we stood face to face, I reckoned he just said it for something to say, and I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t seen this tall gangly boy for ages, but suddenly the devil inside me piped up, and I agreed.

My feet moved somehow, and we made off in the direction of the barn, neither of us speaking. The sun came out brighter, and from the field behind the trees a smell of cow dung drifted our way. Each blade of grass was emerald, backlit like in a film, and the sky turned yellow between the dark clouds. As we walked, every noise seemed emphasised, the birds, the wind,
our footsteps clunking and shuffling, not walking in time. In the distance an occasional car beeped its horn. I was buzzing all over, so much so that I had pins and needles in my toes.

He was still shabby, but when the sun touched his face, from the corner of my eye I saw there was something sweet too. He sloped rather than walked, hands in his pockets, dark blond hair falling over his eyes. And he’d grown into his teeth. In fact they looked white and sparkly. He said he went to the grammar school.

‘How is it?’ I asked.

‘Yeah. Good.’ He paused and touched my arm. ‘Em.’

Something fierce about the look of his face made me blush, and the gap between us suddenly shrank.

‘Sorry about before. You know … I had no choice.’

My heart flipped over. He was referring to the day he’d been forced into telling them where I was hiding. ‘Don’t be daft, Billy,’ I said. ‘That was zillions ago. Forget it.’

We walked on, chatting a bit more easily, though the feeling of awkwardness hung on a bit. At the barn he stopped at the bottom of the ladder, stared at his feet, then looked at me with eyes shining like mirrors, and a strange expression on his face.

‘You’re really beautiful, Em,’ he said. He half smiled but looked self-conscious.

At once I knew why we were there, and it wasn’t for old times’ sake. I didn’t care. He called me beautiful and in that moment, more than anything, I wanted to be.

We avoided the rotten boards and sat with a gap between us, our legs dangling over the edge. He leant across as if to kiss me. I moved the wrong way and his lips caught the side of my nose. He turned scarlet but I giggled and shuffled up close. He kissed me again and this time it was in the right place. He put an arm round me and I leant up against him. He was warm, really warm, but a voice in my head repeated words I’d overheard my father say to Mum.

‘Blood will out, Lydia. Emma is uncontrollable. She’ll follow
in your footsteps –
and
your mother’s – if she remains out of control.’

He’d slammed the door, but I stayed glued to the spot. What was it my mother had done, and exactly where would blood come out?

Before Billy and I left the barn we lay on our backs holding hands. We didn’t do anything more after the one kiss. He smelt of cigarettes and though he no longer wanted to be a magician, he still had magic in his hands. I knew because when he squeezed mine, the tingle spread to my chest. It was like being in another world, safe and out of the way.

Back at school again, and it was Saturday. I sat in the hall outside the office, waiting to pick up my letters. The odd job man appeared with a ladder and chucked me a toffee. I watched two nuns pass by, heads together, looking serious. Three girls came by and one of them winked: Rebecca. We seemed to have reached a truce of kinds.

The black and white hall floor had chips round the edges of the tiles, and dirt impacted in deep scratches. The walls were dull brown, and a houseplant took up one corner of the hall, a spindly rubber plant, grown too tall, missing half of its lower leaves. Nothing like the rubber trees of Malaya.

Once, Father took me up in a helicopter, early. As the light came up, I looked down on our house and the school, and saw the mist that lay above the rocky boulders in the river. Then we flew above rubber plantations and the jungle. From above, the land looked dense and frightening. Father said the spirit of the jungle had a voice, a Chinese voice. I thought he was talking about real spirits, and laughed. He didn’t explain he was referring to terrorists.

My mum and dad were so different. An image of my mother’s wide smile appeared, full of life. Dad never laughed as much as her. I tried to remember what she was wearing the last time I saw her, when she drove us to school. I remembered getting out of
the car and us waving as we ran backwards. But that’s all I could remember. My eyes grew damp. It upset me that I was losing my memories.

The secretary came out of her office and stood in the doorway, a clutch of envelopes in her hand.

‘Penny for them,’ she said with a smile.

I stood up, feeling defensive, as if she could see into my heart. She reached across, holding an envelope by the tips of manicured fingernails, lacquered in sugar pink. I slipped it into my pocket, and went to the bench in the middle of the shrubbery. With the summer holidays approaching, I would get a chance to talk to Dad. He worked in Birmingham now, smartly dressed and travelling long distances.

I felt in my pocket for his letter and ripped it open. They were usually brief and today’s was no different, except for a fact tucked away at the bottom. I hugged myself when I read that Mr Oliver was ill.

Just the thought of the wedding made my heart lurch. My fantasy was that if Veronica found Emma Rothwell, alive and well, we’d go to stay with her after the wedding. I didn’t consider she might not want us with her, or might refuse to accept us as her grandchildren, or might not even be our grandmother.

I went to the quiet room to write more of my latest venture. Lose myself in a story.

It was a large airy space with high up windows, so you couldn’t look out, and where we sat our dreaded end of year exams. Supervised by a rota of sixth form monitors on Saturdays, anyone who felt inclined could go there to get on with what they wanted. Talk was forbidden, so it became my only opportunity to write uninterrupted. Most girls avoided it like the plague; I guarded it jealously. I wanted to work on my current story, a melodrama in which my new heroine, Claris de la Costa, was locked in the suffering caused by her evil grandfather. Sinking into the silence around me, I needed to come to a swift conclusion. Something that would have the reader gasp, open-mouthed
with surprise, at my wit. But I kept losing the thread, so relieved by the contents of Dad’s letter that I couldn’t concentrate. I crossed my fingers and made a wish that Mr Oliver would stay ill for a very long time. In fact, for ever.