‘Dad.’
He raised himself onto one elbow. His blue striped pyjamas sagged from his bony shoulders. A crepe bandage was wrapped around his forehead.
‘Come here. I wasn’t expecting to see you. I thought you were in Paris.’
He held out his arms. He was smiling, but his face was pale and drawn with pain. She leaned forward to hug him. She put her arms around him, but sensing the fragility of the bones in his arms and ribs was afraid to hug him too tightly.
‘Marge called me this morning,’ she said. ‘I came straight away.’
‘You shouldn’t have come all that way. What a fuss about nothing. What on earth did they say at work?’
‘Nothing much. They couldn’t object really, could they? Anyway, what happened to you?’
‘Fell down the damned steps to the library. That ridiculous sodding stick gave way. The rubber bottom had worn down so it slipped—’
He paused for a coughing fit.
‘Ruddy leg broken in two places. Not that it was up to much anyway. Banged my head too.’
‘I hope they dosed you up with painkillers.’
‘Of course. Morphine, codeine, the works. I’m rattling like a tube of Smarties.’
She straightened up and smiled down fondly at him.
‘Why don’t you go and change?’ he asked. ‘You don’t want to spoil that lovely suit.’
‘Don’t fuss over me, Dad. I’ll go up and change in a bit.’
‘I’ll tell you what then,’ he looked up at her craftily. ‘I could do with a beer.’
‘You sure? It’s a bit early.’
‘Nonsense. It’s nearly dark. There is some in the fridge in the study.’
She padded through to his study at the front of the house. Her feet were still wet from the walk.
‘Can I turn on the heating?’ she called. ‘It’s a bit bloody cold in here, Dad.’
‘Boiler’s broken down. I’ve been meaning to get it fixed.’
‘Jesus. What a state … ’
She stopped in the doorway to the study. Towering piles of books, newspapers and journals crowded every surface, the desk, the sideboard and even the floor. On the desk, ringed with coffee stains, were dirty cups and glasses, an ash tray overflowing with cigarette ends. She walked in, glancing briefly at the portrait of her mother and herself as a baby placed on the mantelpiece. Then holding her breath to avoid taking in the study’s smells, she pulled up both the sash windows and began to collect the dirty crockery. There was a book open on the desk. She flipped through the pages. What had Dad been reading? A History of the British Empire. Just the usual stuff.
She was about to move away when she saw something poking out from between the book’s pages. It looked like a photograph.
She slipped it out and stared at it. A faded sepia portrait, battered and creased. One of its corners had been torn away. It was someone she’d never seen before. It was a young woman. Although her complexion was pale, she had oriental features: dark eyes the shape of almonds, slightly tilted at the edges, a full mouth, a sheen of black hair drawn back severely from her face. She had a serious, demure expression, betraying a trace of surprise at the flash of the camera bulb. Laura turned over the photograph. The ink was so faded it was almost colourless. It looked as though it had been in water, but she could just make out the words written neatly in flowing script: ‘To my dear Thomas. Good luck. Joy de Souza. Penang, November 1941.’
She stared at the photograph, confused. Then, with a pang of guilt she remembered the day she had found the letter with the Penang post mark, the one that had been scuffed by the letter box. She must have been fourteen or fifteen at the time. The exotic stamp had caught her eye, and when she pulled the letter free from the box, she’d noticed that she could read part of the letter through the torn envelope. It was but a small step to tear it a little further and ease out the letter. She’d heard Dad come in through the front door before she had read beyond the first few lines. She had panicked. Shame washed over her now as she remembered how she’d thrown the letter into the sitting-room fire and watched the flames devour it.
‘Laura. You still there?’ Dad called from the other room.
She slipped the photo back inside the book and went to the fridge.
‘Won’t be a minute,’ she called, steadying her voice.
In the small kitchen at the back of the house, she rinsed one of the dirty glasses and filled it with beer. Dad was coughing and wheezing again when she came into the room. He held out his hand for the glass. After a few sips the cough subsided, and he dabbed his eyes with a crumpled handkerchief.
‘Roll up a cigarette for me, will you? There’s a good girl.’
‘Your cough sounds dreadful, Dad. You should really give it a rest.’
‘I don’t think it’s going to make that much difference at this stage, do you?’ He winked at her. ‘An old man deserves some pleasures in life.’
Sighing, she went to the sideboard and found the green tin of Golden Virginia; the cigarette papers and matches were in the desk drawer. Folding the paper and measuring just the right amount of tobacco, she packed it into the fold and rolled him a cigarette, just as he had taught her to do as a child.
After he had taken a couple of puffs, he lay back on the pillows.
‘Pull that chair up, there’s a good girl. Come and sit with me. I’ve been so damned bored.’ She dragged an armchair over to the bed and sat down beside him.
‘I didn’t notice at first,’ he said, peering at her. ‘You’ve had your hair cut.’
She pushed her hands back through her damp hair. She felt colour creeping into her cheeks.
‘It must look frightful. I forgot to bring an umbrella. I came straight from the office. It wasn’t raining in
