The White Pearl (63 page)

She tipped her head back against his knees and he kissed her forehead. ‘And us?’ she asked. She gave him a smile, even though
he couldn’t see it. ‘Should I worry about us?’

He threw down his paddle and wrapped his arms around her. ‘Do you fancy canoeing all the way to Australia?’

‘Just point me the right way,’ she said, and gave what could pass as a laugh.

‘It’s over there in the …’ He paused. ‘Listen!’

The plane’s engines had changed their pitch.

‘Connie, she’s turning. She’s changed direction to take off into the wind.’

Connie sat up straight as she heard the plane charging across the water directly towards them. Without any of its lights showing,
she still couldn’t see it, and knew there wasn’t a hope in hell of it seeing them, yet her eyes strained to find it. To catch
just a glimpse of the plane that was carrying her son.

Swiftly Fitz tore off his shirt. Hunched in the bottom of the boat he pulled a box of matches from his pocket and, sheltering
it from the wind behind the curve of the canoe’s side, he struck a match. Nothing happened.

‘Damp,’ he cursed.

‘Quick. Try again.’ Connie’s heart was hammering.

He struck them again and again until finally first one and then another flared into life, and Connie held the thin material
of his shirt over them. It smouldered miserably for a second but then caught fire as the noise of the engines drew closer.
Fitz raised his arm and waved the burning shirt
back and forth in an arc through the cool night air, the wind sweeping the flames into a fireball as Connie paddled desperately
to veer out of the path of the oncoming plane. But they were acutely aware that the flames would attract attention on the
island as much as on the plane; they both knew what they were risking.

Abruptly, the flying boat’s engines lowered in pitch.

‘It’s slowing,’ Connie said, and snatched the burning shirt from Fitz’s hand, throwing it on the front of the canoe to save
his hands. ‘They’ve seen us.’

Relief swept through her as a searchlight suddenly leaped from the plane. She could see it now, a vast lumbering angel with
wings.

‘Connie, paddle like hell!’

‘Your General Takehashi will be coming after us, won’t he, now that he knows where we are?’

But even as they started to paddle furiously towards the plane, they could hear somewhere behind them the engine of a Japanese
gunboat in the distance.
Not now. Not when Teddy is so close. Not now, Sai-Ru Jumat. Let me go.

The canoe was taking on water badly in the disturbance around the plane, but Connie didn’t waste time baling it out. She paddled
harder. They skirted the floats and headed under the great slab of the wing to the tiny door that opened into the body of
the flying boat. It lay directly under the raised cockpit, a rectangle of welcoming light, and the pilot’s voice shouted down
to them, ‘Don’t take all day, chaps. I’ve got to get this crate up in the air or we’ll be eating raw fish for breakfast.’

Another voice inside the flying boat called out with good humour, ‘Get a move on, will you, skipper? Don’t you know there’s
a bloody war on!’

Connie heard laughter. There was laughter on the plane.

What worth can you put on life, when you thought you were dead?

What value can you put on holding your son in your arms and feeling his hot tears on your cheek, when you thought you’d lost
him for ever?

What does it mean to sit shoulder to shoulder with the man you love, and see him smile at you?

Words are too small. Too infinitesimal. Words don’t even come close.

Connie sat inside the huge cavern of the flying boat, its metal spars arching over her like the ribs of a whale, and experienced
the violent juddering of the plane as it hurtled across the sea in a mighty effort to rise into a planing attitude and come
unstuck. The waves were reluctant to let go, pounding the hull as it raced past. Machine guns opened fire from the enemy gunboat
and a wingtip was hit, but the lumbering angel shook it off and took to the air in a great rush of energy. Connie heard its
sigh of joy. It loved its freedom as much as she did.

‘So, Fitz,’ she leaned her head back against the quivering metal skin and it felt like listening to a heartbeat, ‘where now?’

‘Darwin,’ Fitz looked grey with exhaustion and pain, but his eyes were bright and amused. ‘Darwin,’ he repeated.

‘In Australia?’

‘That’s the one.’

She uttered a gasp. She hadn’t expected that.

‘I thought it would be New Guinea.’

‘No, too dangerous,’ he said. ‘We’re heading for Darwin. It’s a vital port for the Allied military campaign in the Pacific.
Its position is so strategic that its naval harbour and airbase are crucial in maintaining
attacks on the Japanese. The 33rd Pursuit Squadron is stationed there with its Warhawks, as well as the Hudson patrol planes.’
He studied her reaction to the idea, as he added, ‘There will be all kinds of war-work to be done there.’

Connie felt a jolt of excitement at the prospect of becoming involved, of playing an active part in some way.

‘But what about your boat?’ she asked. ‘What about Nurul?’

‘They can wait.’ He laughed softly. ‘But some things can’t.’ He leaned forward and kissed her mouth, then sat back with a
smile.

‘Better?’ she asked.

‘Much, thank you.’

She slipped her hand into his, and his fingers closed around hers. The interior of the flying boat was laid out like a military
plane: rough and ready, with few seats but a chart table for the navigator and an elaborate wireless set for the Sparks. Two
gunners with machine guns sat on platforms high up, keeping watch, but Connie’s eyes were drawn to the flight deck ahead.
The early-morning sun painted it golden, and she could see her son’s brown curls gleaming like copper as he stood, enthralled
between Johnnie Blake and Pilot Officer Reeves, who was explaining how to throttle back.

Teddy would recover, she knew he would. Her son was young and he was strong, but it would take time and love to heal the gashes
in his heart. He had clung to her with tears and kisses at first, but already his natural curiosity and enthusiasm for flying
were drawing him from her side.

What surprised her more was to find Maya and Razak on board. Maya was lying flat on a bunk with a pillow over her head, mewing
pitifully, but Connie was certain she would survive the journey remarkably well. Maya was an extraordinary young girl wih
astonishing resources. Darwin didn’t know what was coming.

‘I’m so pleased she’s here,’ Connie told Fitz, ‘so that I can keep an eye on her and teach her things.’

Fitz frowned. ‘Just be careful she doesn’t teach you things,’ he grumbled, and made her laugh.

Maya had rushed over to her earlier, wide-eyed with disbelief, and a huge smile had spread across her young face as she prodded
a finger into Connie’s shoulder, making certain she was flesh and blood.

‘You real!’ Maya said. ‘You here!’

‘Yes, I’m real and I’m here. No more treehouses for us!’

‘I glad you here.’ Maya beamed and held on tight to Connie’s wrist. ‘I make sure you stay here.’

Simple words. But they meant much to Connie and she hugged Maya to her, until the place gave a sudden lurch and the girl scuttled
back to her bunk and her pillow.

It was Razak who looked uneasy. Silent and nervous in a corner. Connie wondered how on earth Maya had managed to bully him
away from his pirates and onto the flying boat. But their blood was thick, and flowed between the twins as if through one
network of veins. There was one other man in military uniform on the plane. At first Connie thought he was a member of the
crew, but quickly she realised her mistake. He was sitting quietly now at the opposite end of the plane, but when they’d first
arrived, he had approached Fitz and offered him his hand.

‘How are you, Fitzpayne?’

‘Well enough.’

‘Good to see you out of that hole. Much trouble?’

‘Nothing difficult.’

‘Fine.’

That was it. They didn’t speak again. But when she asked Fitz who he was, Fitz had closed the shutters a fraction and she
had felt a part of him withdraw behind his well-constructed barriers.

‘His name is Hodgkins. He’s in Intelligence, I believe. That lot are always on the prowl.’

She asked no more. Fitz had so many layers, it came as no surprise. This Hodgkins knew Fitz. Had they worked together? Had
Fitz been feeding information about Japanese movements in these waters to the British? Was his relationship with Japan just
a sham?

She realised there was so much she didn’t know about him yet, but she had all the future ahead of them to discover more. She
could sense the way his mind entwined with her own, and was conscious of the sorrow she had caused him as intimately as she
felt the paths of pain he had caused her. But they would heal. She and Fitz were bound together. She loved him too much to
try to cage his energy, but she knew there would be a place in their future for them to be together when all this was over.

When there was a better world. The old one was crumbling, the old order vanishing, but she possessed a passionate belief that
the Western world would roll up its sleeves and build a new one. A better one. A world in which countries were no longer obsessed
with hurling themselves into
terrible wars, willing to let their young men pay the price. Teddy was growing up fast, but there would be no wars for him.
He had seen more than enough death to last him a lifetime. She looked out of one of the tiny windows, but all she saw was
a vivid blue expanse of water. Malaya was gone, but one day, she promised herself, she would take Teddy back again to see
his father’s home.

‘Connie.’

She turned to Fitz with concern. ‘Is your leg bad?’

He shook his head, dismissing it. ‘Connie, Hodgkins is a bit of a maverick who relishes a challenge in his work and has
the courage to see it through.’ He raised one of his thick eyebrows. ‘Like someone else I know.’

He laughed and she felt his laughter reach inside her.

‘So?’ she asked.

‘So I could speak to him for you, if you’d like. He’s always looking for good people.’

Connie fixed her eyes on his and again felt excitement quicken her pulse. Her fingers tightened. ‘Darwin could be a good place
to start a new life,’ she said, non-committally. A new life with new opportunities, somewhere to make herself useful.

‘I could visit often.’

‘In your boat?’

‘Yes.’

‘Teddy would be safe there.’

‘And when this war is over, together we could …’

She put a finger to his lips. ‘One step at a time, Fitz.’ She felt the warm pressure of his arm on hers, and his long thigh
firm against her own. The future rolled out before her, as enticing as new grass. ‘We’d be safe, because Japanese planes will
never get as far as Darwin.’ She smiled at him, her decision made. ‘Will they?’

If you enjoyed
The White Pearl
,
read on for reading group questions,
an exclusive Q&A with the author and
to find out more about her research process.

  1.  Who was your favourite character and why?

  2.  Who was your least favourite character and why?

  3.  Did you know much about the historical background to the novel before starting it? What did it add to the reading experience?
How has the author used her research?

  4.  What do you think of Connie as the heroine of the novel? How does Connie change through the course of the book? Do you
think she makes the right choices in her life?

  5.  What do the characters of Maya and Razak tell you about Malaya at this time? How did you feel about their determination
to exact revenge on Connie?

  6.  What do you feel are the main themes in
The White Pearl?

  7.  What are the differences, and similarities, between Connie and Maya?

  8.  How would you describe the atmosphere on the boat?

  9.  Did you trust Fitz, as Connie does, through the book?

10.  Did the ending take you by surprise and do you think Connie made the right choice?

What is the best thing about writing for a living? And the worst?

Writing is an inexplicably strange obsession. I call it the agony and the ecstasy, because every page is an intense mixture
of both. I’m tempted to say that writing
The End
on the last page is the best thing. The sense of relief is enormous, but it also brings with it a huge feeling of emptiness
– like mourning the loss of a much-loved friend. I hate saying goodbye to a book and its characters.

But instead I am going to say that the best thing is being given the opportunity to live so many different lives. Most people
only have their own, but an author can be a plantation owner one day, a servant girl or a criminal the next, a child or an
adult, a woman or a man – an amazing array of personas to take on and learn from. Every day is a revelation.

The worst thing? That’s easy: deadlines. For some unaccountable reason that baffles authors, publishers want to know when
you’re going to finish a book. They breathe down your neck, very gently of course, but it’s always there, that reproachful
breath, as your deadline looms closer.

Have you always wanted to be a writer?

No. Unlike most of my writer friends, I had no burning desire to become an author when I was young, though I was always an
avid reader. Despite studying English at university, I came to writing late, and frankly I was astounded to find how much
I adored it and how many others became passionate about my stories. That’s one of the joys of a website – instant reader feedback.

I might never have got round to writing at all if it weren’t that my husband was a crime novelist – Neville Steed. So the
whole process of constructing a book was already demystified for me and I knew how to set about it. Now, I am totally hooked
and would no more consider not writing than I would not breathing.