‘Your father dead?’
‘Oh, Ch’ing, you didn’t know’?’
She told the story as simply as she could. Ch’ing’s eyes never left her face and when all was told, she uttered two words which were fair trial and honest verdict, ‘My Josef.’
She rose soon afterwards and when Liz would have gone with her she shook her head and motioned towards Alan. ‘I all right,’ she said, ‘back soon.’
Liz watched her go. She walked out and towards the hut the Sakais had allotted for the women visitors, an old, bent, solitary woman in the moonlight, her shoulders eloquent of this new burden of knowledge. A son who had murdered a man who had done him nothing but good, a man who, Liz knew, had regarded himself more as an uncle than as the employer of the man’s father.
Beyond the hut Ch’ing entered, Liz could hear the Sakais calling to each other. She was surprised how loudly some of the men talked to each other. When they were on the edges of others’ habitation they appeared shy, but here in their own home they were obviously joking and chattering with spirit and humour.
Alone with Alan she put her hands on his shoulders, leaning gently down to kiss his lips. ‘They say a kiss without a moustache is like a meal without salt,’ she whispered to him, then kissed his forehead and eyes. Just the way her father had once roused her from sleep to leave early for a holiday. Kindly but firmly his tones had reached into her sleeping mind; now her voice must reach into Alan’s. It was like an intercession as she talked on and on, pleading for the darkness to let his mind go, let him back into life.
‘The jungle is never still, Alan, always there is growth, and after the rains the young shoots grow inches overnight. Life and light, Alan. Look! Over between the trees I can see lights, tiny dancing sparks. Fireflies. I used to think they were fairies, Tinkerbell and her friends, I used to tell Lee. You remember Lee? She and her mother were at the camp, they saved you and brought you to the Sakais. Lee will be here soon. You could wake up and say thank you.’
She put her head down on the bed, cradling his hand under her breasts, talking still.
‘The fireflies have gone now, perhaps they know it’s going to rain again. Alan, I think my jungle is like the living green threads on a gigantic loom through which man ;waves his threads of good or evil. The jungle accepts all alike, hides the good and the bad. We have to be on the side of the angels, Alan, us and the Sakais, Lee and her mother, my mother. That reminds me of how I used to say my prayers. The Lord’s Prayer, then a list: “God Bless Mother, Father, Wendy, Anna, Lee and Mr and Mrs Guisan ... Josef ... ”’
Lightning flickered and crackled all around the camp, then almost immediately the rain sheeted down, making the thunder almost inaudible. She glanced up at the woven leaf roof; not a spot of water penetrated it.
No use to try to talk now. She moistened his lips again, then lay on the bed by his side. She remembered tracing his ribcage with her fingers to wake him for dinner at Rinsey — it felt like several light years ago. She wanted to put her arm across his chest but was afraid even the slightest pressure might hamper his breathing, so light, so insubstantial. She held his hand in the darkness of the storm as a blind woman might and cried tears on to it for its thinness.
In the privacy of the darkness and the noise she sobbed aloud, calling his name. She felt she could have raised her head and howled louder than the savage downpour for very loneliness.
Then in the darkness and the storm Ch’ing came struggling back. She lit a small lamp in one corner and, taking up the bowl, began the duty of keeping the patient’s lips moist, motioning to Liz to sleep.
There was something in the woman’s intention to act as night nurse that made Liz feel Ch’ing wanted to do so as some kind of act of reparation. When Liz reached across and squeezed her hand, Ch’ing gave her one agonised look, then dropped her hand for shame of her son. She went on plying this other young man with the medicine of the Sakais, as if service to this new man in the Hammonds’ lives might make some recompense.
By midday the following day Lee reached the camp. She came and sighed over the still motionless young boyfriend and in her eyes Liz saw she thought that if he did not soon recover he would never do so.
Her mother drew her away quite soon and in the privacy of the women’s hut Liz could hear the quiet keening as Ch’ing grieved for a man still alive, but lost to her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Blanche walked from the taxi towards the gaol gates. The small crowd were used now to seeing this Englishwoman among their number, but today, in black, with wide-brimmed black hat and veiled face, she created both awe and unease.
Mostly Chinese, with a healthy respect for their dead, they recognised extreme mourning and grief and fell quiet. One eventually offered a small folding seat.
‘Thank you, but no,’ Blanche said quietly. She wished they would go on with their chatter and at least pretend some kind of normality. She knew her presence weighed heavily on them every time they came, but today, straight from Joan and Aubrey’s funeral, it was as if she had cast some ghastly spell on them.
The Wildons had many friends. News of their double murder had spread around the East, bringing appalled and grieving friends and acquaintances from as far away as Java. Blanche had felt completely disoriented as she recognised faces and voices from prewar parties, bridge afternoons, tennis-club tournaments. Many had sought her out before the service and the reunions would begin with greetings and kisses, then the reminiscences: ‘The last time we met, why, it must have been … ’
Blanche felt stilted and unreal, quite unable to contribute anything to the nostalgic crowd. Her mind was on the fate of the daughter she had allowed to go off into enemy-occupied jungle and the loss of her dearest friends. After following the funeral cortege to the English section of the cemetery, she slipped away quietly, mentally apologising to her lost elegant, eloquent friends. She was aware of curious glances from other mourners, but could imagine Joan saying, ‘Go on, darling, we totally understand.’
What she needed was to talk to George Harfield. She needed his adage-ridden reassurance, his strength.
‘Aah!’ the general sigh of relief when the gates were opened was audible. The Chinese glanced at her and hurried inside, anxious to be away from this spectrelike figure.
George was at his allotted table, rising immediately he saw her. ‘I heard about the Wildons,’ he said, catching her hands and lowering her into his visitor’s chair. ‘The bastards! God, it makes me feel so bloody hopeless!’ He held on to her hands. ‘Blanche, are you all right? You look terrible.’
‘Thanks, George.’ She gave his hand a squeeze as she added, ‘That makes me feel much better.’ And to her own chagrin tears began to run down her cheeks. ‘I don’t cry,’ she told him.
‘No, my love, I can see that.’ He paused while she blotted her cheeks and eyes. ‘You’ve come straight from the funeral. Are you alone?’
‘I came in our car with the guard.’
‘Liz?’ he queried.
She did not answer.
‘Liz didn’t go with you?’
She shook her head slowly. He found the way she dropped her eyes at his last question quite out of character. ‘So where is Liz?’ She looked up at him then and he could only think her expression was agonised. He leaned forwards and demanded, ‘Blanche! Tell me what’s happened!’
She hesitated, wondering if this was why she had come — just to unburden herself to someone. She gazed at him silently, pondering the question of his specialness to her.
‘For God’s sake don’t make me feel any more useless than I am here,’ he pressed her to go on. ‘At least I can listen — perhaps even advise.’
‘I’m sorry, George, of course I must tell you ... everything.’