Journey to Paradise, page 17
‘I should leave,’ she muttered.
‘Good. Make sure you don’t come back in a hurry.’ Jane brushed past her; her words stung. ‘Your name’s mud here as it is.’
‘Charlotte, please, I didn’t mean any harm.’ Miranda lifted her head.
‘While I’m still bloody angry with you, there was no need for her to be so rude,’ Charlotte said, her voice rising, ‘but what the hell were you playing at? You had absolutely no right to take Jack – you, of all people, should know the pain you’d be inflicting.’
The words cut deep.
‘I was in a panic – I didn’t think.’
‘Well, perhaps you should have. Look, I don’t want to talk about all this now.’ Her voice softened a little, ‘I know you’ve been ill – I hope you get well soon.’
Charlotte left and Miranda’s breathing became longer and calmer. She stood there alone for a moment, before she heard the sound of Georgina’s heeled sandals clicking towards her.
An hour later, Miranda and Georgina sat beneath the coconut trees on the beach, watching long shadows fall across the sand. A radio was playing at a small beach café and the laughter of children rolled back to her as they ran along the surf towards the Sea View Hotel.
‘Thank you,’ Miranda said. ‘It’s been a tough day, but it was good to get out.’
‘I’m so pleased.’
‘Even meeting Charlotte – it’s actually made me confront a few things.’
‘Well, that’s a step forward, isn’t it? And now you can put it behind you, surely?’
Miranda nodded, trailing her fingers in the sand.
‘You know,’ Georgina said. ‘You don’t have to tell me if it’s too painful, but what exactly did happen with Henry?’
Miranda picked up a foxtail shell and dug it into the sand. ‘It was just before Christmas.’ She swallowed, picturing in her mind how she’d been sitting by the fire. ‘I was so tired and all I wanted to do was to fall asleep. I’d left him to cry, like my mother suggested. The crying stopped and I must have dozed off, but I woke suddenly with a feeling that there was something wrong.’
She dug the shell further into the sand.
‘When I went to his cot I could tell almost straight away.’
‘Why?’
‘It was a warm day for December, but there was a coldness to his body that didn’t feel right. A silence that didn’t fit the day.’ She shut her eyes, remembering the stillness of his body as he lay there, the shadow of blue around his mouth. ‘I didn’t have to pick him up to know. I could see he wasn’t breathing. I didn’t know what to do, so I picked him up and ran to the hospital.’
‘That must have been dreadful.’
‘No words can describe it.’
She watched a ball roll towards them, a little girl running in its wake.
‘You know, I blamed my mother for ages. But, in the end, I was angrier with myself. I shouldn’t have left him. That’s why I got so cross with Charlotte’s amah.’
Miranda picked the ball up. ‘Here you are.’ She smiled at the girl, who ran back to her mother.
‘They told me later that he had a hole in his heart. I know now that nothing could have stopped it, but I should have been with him all the same.’
She watched the woman rub Nivea on to the girl’s back and plant a kiss on her forehead.
‘What about your mother? Have you forgiven her?’ Georgina asked.
‘I suppose so. It wasn’t really her fault, was it?’ Miranda brushed sand from her legs. ‘You know, I think I’d like to go for a walk.’
‘Would you like company?’
She shook her head.
‘Don’t forget your hat, then. It’s a scorcher.’
She picked it up but didn’t put it on and she let the ribbon trail in the sand as she walked. Deep in thought, she stumbled on a piece of driftwood and watched it tumbling towards the waves. The truth was that she still felt so much guilt. It tripped her up umpteen times a day. No one knew how it pained her, how she replayed that moment over and over again. Of course, she longed to laugh, to feel free, to dance in the sand, not to drag the past around like some awful deadweight. No one wanted Miranda to be the person she used to be more than she did. But somehow she couldn’t find her way back.
Nineteen
Nick watched the waves frothing against the shore. He could make out what looked like giant speckled stones, a shoal of grey fish basking in the shallows and the blue outline of an island on the horizon surrounded by a halo of afternoon light. A gull screeched overhead. He looked up, following the flight of the bird, as it ducked and dived then headed inland. Along the shoreline, he could make out the figure of someone walking towards him, head bent down, shoulders forward, as though battling against an imaginary wind. A woman; her hair was flapping across her face. He could see a hat in her hand, the ribbon trailing and grazing the sand.
It was Miranda.
‘Hello,’ he called.
She lifted her head. Her gaze was distant, as though she were looking at him from a long way away.
‘Nick?’ Her features focused when she saw him.
He made his way quickly towards her. ‘How are you? I tried to visit but your amah wouldn’t let me in.’
‘I heard.’ She passed the rim of her hat slowly between her fingers. ‘I’m all right.’
‘Good. But, surely, you’re not here alone?’
‘No.’ She glanced towards the sea, then back at a space in front of her. ‘I came with Georgina.’
‘And are you thinking of going back or walking on?’
‘I don’t know. I might go back.’
She looked pale and tired.
‘Well,’ he paused, uncertain. ‘Would you like company? I could walk with you?’
‘If you like. You decide.’ She set off again, her hat ribbon trailing once again in the sand.
He caught her up. ‘You can see where the Japanese surrendered from here.’ He pointed across the sea. ‘And Jurong is up there, further up the coast.’
She slowed. ‘So many islands.’
‘You know,’ he began, ‘I really did try to call.’
She stopped hard and swivelled round, her dark eyes flashing.
‘I wish Mei Ling had let you,’ she said.
Me too. His heart beat faster; he could feel it fluttering – like the wings of a baby bird.
‘I was so grateful for your help the other day,’ she said.
He could see tears in her eyes. ‘It will get easier, you know. All of it.’
‘Will it?’ She flopped down and brushed the sand away from her feet. ‘From where I am, it’s only getting worse.’
‘You’ll find something; you’ll come through it.’
‘I wish I could. Right now, I don’t know where to start.’
‘Anything that is worth doing is hard.’
‘That’s easy for you to say.’
‘Believe me, I do know. You’re not the only one to live each day overshadowed by grief.’
He could hear her shallow breathing as she drew slow circles in the sand, then he watched her brush away a strand of hair that had blown across her face.
‘You?’
‘I had a brother, Freddie.’ His ribs felt like a tightening cage around his heart. ‘He was two years older than me. Freddie was everything that I wasn’t – academic, good at sport, popular. The only time I was better than him was when we visited my grandmother at Coombe. She had a house by the sea, large garden, rolling fields down to the cliffs. We used to visit her all summer, to get away from London. Great place for two boys.’ He paused for a moment, looking at her face, at the frown that was forming.
‘One day my grandmother was sick. Freddie and I were left to entertain ourselves. We spent the day on the beach, racing along the sand, crabbing in rock pools, all kinds of things. Freddie always ran faster, caught the biggest crabs. But he wasn’t as good at climbing as me. On the way back to Coombe, I climbed up one of the cliff faces and taunted him. Said he was a coward. So he took the challenge – I could see in his face how much it scared him, but he was almost at the top when his foot slipped. I tried to reach out and grab him, but it was no good. I watched him fall and saw him hit the rocks. He was just eighteen.’
‘That’s awful.’ He could see the shock on her face.
‘Yes. So, you see, even though I’ll never understand what you’ve been through, I do know what it’s like to blame yourself. And, don’t you see, it doesn’t matter if it’s your fault or not. However hard it is, you’ve got to carry on?’
‘But how do you come to terms with something like that?’
‘You have to keep busy, to try to keep the pain at bay. Turn something bad into something good.’
He saw her flinch. ‘Is that why you became a doctor – some kind of atonement?’
‘I suppose.’ He finished his cigarette, then stood and made his way to the water’s edge. The sea was surprisingly cold as he paddled and he noticed how little pieces of seaweed floated on the top, crashing on to the sand with the breaking waves. The tide was going out.
‘Sometimes you can see little flashes of phosphorescence in the water,’ he said, as she joined him.
‘I’m sorry, Nick.’ Her hand brushed his arm. ‘About your brother.’
‘Thanks. Perhaps we should go back?’
She nodded, and they walked side by side in the outgoing water. He lifted his head and their eyes met.
‘You’re stronger than you think.’ He was about to reassure her further when something rough caught the sole of his foot. He bent down; it was a starfish.
‘Look.’
‘Is it all right?’ She took it from him. ‘It feels strange, all dry and scratchy, like sandpaper.’
‘Yes.’ He took it from her. ‘But I think it’s still alive. I’m going to throw it back into the sea.’
‘Oh no! There’s another.’ He looked up to see her pointing to a smaller starfish. ‘And another!’
He began to collect them up.
‘I wouldn’t bother, if I were you,’ she said. ‘They’ll only come in again on the next tide.’
‘I know, but they might not, and if only one survives, then it will have been worth it, won’t it?’
A frown flickered across her face, then she knelt down and helped him throw them back. When they’d finished, they carried on walking in the surf, but still she looked broken and diminished – he knew all too well how that felt. He wished he could do something to help her and then an idea occurred to him.
‘I’ve just been thinking about what you said about the volunteering you did in England, how you were missing it and wanting to help other people.’
‘So?’
‘There’s a patient at the centre, Martha. She’s more of a political refugee, if I’m honest. She needs some company, someone to look after her. I don’t suppose you could help?’
She pressed her lips together. He wasn’t sure what she was thinking, but he saw a slight movement of her head, confirming that she’d heard.
‘Martha Hollande? I’ve heard of her.’
‘Yes.’ He waited, but she didn’t reply, and so they walked on in silence.
Finally, the Sea View came into sight. ‘My car’s parked at the back,’ he said. ‘Will you be all right if I leave you here?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘Here – I almost forgot. Close your eyes and hold out your hands.’
Miranda did as he told her, and he saw her flinch as he placed a tiny starfish in the palm of her hand. ‘One that didn’t survive, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh,’ she said, opening her eyes.
‘Will you think about what I said? About Martha?’
She didn’t reply, but at last he caught the stirring of a smile.
Twenty
The following morning, Miranda stood in the bathroom doorway watching her husband. He caught sight of her and smiled, then he lathered up shaving soap with his badger brush and peered in the mirror, his head poised as he scraped his chin with the razor.
‘It’s good to see you looking so much better,’ he said. ‘And it was good of Georgina to take you to the club yesterday. It won’t be long before the incident is forgotten, now you’ve written to Charlotte, and everything will return to normal.’
But her thoughts weren’t with the club and their social life – they were at the beach, thinking about Nick’s suggestion. About Martha.
‘What do you know about Martha Hollande?’ she asked, leaning against the frame.
He paused, razor suspended. ‘Why? What do you want to know?’
‘I’ve heard about her a couple of times, that’s all.’ She picked at her nails.
‘It’s a complicated and unusual adoption case.’ He rinsed the blade in the water and stared at it, as though examining the soapy foam. ‘Martha’s parents were in Malaya before the Occupation. They left Martha with a local family for safe-keeping. Now they want her back, but the local family claim she was legally adopted.’ He swirled the water with his hand. ‘It will be going to the Supreme Court soon.’
She listened to the scrape of metal on hair as he resumed shaving.
‘It’s all become a little divisive, if you ask me.’ He was working on his upper lip, concentrating as he worked the blade in neat rhythmic strokes.
‘How do you mean?’
Their gaze met in the mirror. ‘Well, Catholics against Muslims; expats against locals. Word is that the Chief Justice will be harsh.’
‘But what do you think will happen?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m not a lawyer – how can I answer that?’ He rinsed the razor in the sink again, shaking it before moving on to his sideburns. ‘But, if you ask me, her father was doing the right thing at the time. Can you imagine what it was like – the prospect of being rounded up and sent off to a Jap concentration camp?’ He paused, not waiting for her to answer. ‘You’d be bloody terrified, of course, you would. No doubt about it, he thought he was doing the best thing for the kid.’
‘Poor girl. But, after all these years, shouldn’t she stay put?’
He finished shaving, picked up a flannel and rinsed it under the tap, then held it over his face, muffling his voice. ‘Well, without proper documents, there isn’t a case to answer, I suppose.’
She shifted against the doorframe, folding her arms. ‘Surely it’s the right thing, morally, I mean?’
‘Emotions and morals aren’t what the court will be looking at.’ He pulled the plug out of the sink, the gurgling of water breaking into their conversation.
‘What if it were the other way around – if she were a Malay child adopted by a European family, do you think the situation would be the same?’
She watched him applying Brylcreem to his hair and smoothing it down with a comb.
‘Honestly, Miranda,’ he placed the comb on a shelf, ‘I don’t know.’ He picked up his watch. ‘I’d better get on.’
He walked past her into his dressing room. She could hear drawers opening and closing, the bang of a wardrobe door.
Poor Martha. What a bloody awful situation.
All morning, her thoughts drifted back to the girl and to Nick’s suggestion on the beach. She touched the starfish on her dressing table. What was it that Nick had said? ‘You have to keep busy, to try to keep the pain at bay. Turn something bad into something good.’
After lunch, she asked Jinhai to drive her to Tanjong Pagar.
‘Here we are,’ he said, as he pulled up outside the crumbling building.
‘Thank you.’ She got out and walked towards the entrance and passed a sign for ‘St Augustin’s Mission Hospital’ before she pushed open the creaking door. Inside, it smelt of boiled cabbage and antispectic, which conjured up memories of the sick bay at school. The corridor was empty and voices filtered down from a staircase, then a door banged, startling her. Which way should she go? Along the corridor, she heard rubber-soled heels squeaking, and she turned her head.
‘Can I help you?’ a Malay nurse asked.
‘Yes. I’ve come to see Dr Wythenshaw. Can you tell me the way?’
‘I’ll show you – I’m heading that way myself.’
Miranda focused on the large circles of sweat beneath the nurse’s armpits as they drew closer to the sound of voices and the tapping of a typewriter.
‘Are you family?’ the nurse asked.
‘No. I’m a friend – just visiting.’
‘Oh. It’s a bit unusual to get visitors during the day.’
They turned a corner and passed a group of patients waiting on chairs, a small ward of children and then, opposite the ward, an office door with Nick’s name on it.
‘Wait here.’ The nurse indicated a chair, then she knocked on the door and gently turned the handle. Miranda sat down; her stomach knotted as she waited for the nurse to return.
‘He said you should have made an appointment. Is there any chance you could come back later?’
‘Oh. Please, could you tell him it’s Miranda Lewis?’
The nurse frowned, as though weighing up exactly what it was that Miranda wanted and whether she’d get into trouble for not doing what Miranda asked.
‘Please?’ she asked again, her tone firmer.
The nurse went back into the office, and a few moments later she returned.
‘He said all right – if it’s quick.’
She stepped across the corridor and pushed open the door. His office was smaller than she expected, crowded with books and journals. On the walls there were photographs from his university days; the humidity had speckled the edges of the mounts with mould. Documents teetered from every surface and a tea tray with tiny cups balanced on the desk.
‘Miranda I’m sorry. I didn’t hear properly when the nurse told me who it was.’
‘It’s me that should be sorry, disturbing you when you’re busy – I shouldn’t have just turned up like this.’
‘Why don’t you sit down?’ He removed a stack of papers and a pile of books from a chair. ‘So,’ he began, ‘what can I do for you?’
