‘Where was your God then, padre?’ Tom whispered, and he wept again for his lost friends.
22
Luke’s snores came loud and regular from his side of the bed. Laura crept about, so as not to waken him. The first rays of the morning sun were beginning to penetrate the gaps in the wickerwork roof. She glanced at her watch, aware that she needed to move quickly. She folded her few clothes and slipped them into the backpack, along with her flip-flops and wash bag and the guide books she had previously unpacked.
She pulled a notebook from her rucksack and scribbled a few lines:
‘Dear Luke, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking over the past few days and I’ve decided to go straight on to Penang alone instead of coming to Phuket. You’ll have a far better time without me. I’m sure Jed and Dale will be great travelling companions. I’m sorry things haven’t worked out between us. I’m sorry, too, that I dragged you here on a quest after my father’s past. I know it’s been very dull for you, but it was something I needed to do. I’m going to get the early train back to Bangkok and then a night train down to Malaysia. You look as though you need some sleep, so I’m not going to wake you.’
She wrote ‘Love Laura’ at the end, but then hesitated, and scribbled it out quickly. She had loved him, but she couldn’t feel any trace of it now. She propped the note against his water bottle and crept towards the door. She paused as she opened the door and the sunlight flooded into the room, afraid that it would wake him, but glancing back, she saw that he slumbered on. She stared at his sleeping form, the half open mouth, the mass of dark hair spread out on the pillow. He was still beautiful, she observed, even if all her desire for him had vanished. So this was it. There was no going back now. If she left, it would be the end. She felt an odd thrill of excitement at what she was about to do. With one last look, she hoisted her rucksack onto her shoulder and walked away.
The owner of the guesthouse was already up and bright-eyed, frying rice for breakfast in the outdoor kitchen behind her own hut, the toddlers playing around her on the floor. She looked at Laura with frank curiosity when she said that she was checking out but that her friend was staying on. Laura smiled, put her hands together in the traditional Thai greeting of ‘Wai’, wished her well as she paid the bill, then walked out onto the dusty road.
When she arrived at the station, breathless and sweaty from the walk, she was told that the Bangkok train was not due for another hour. She bought a ticket, deposited her rucksack at the left-luggage counter and set off for the museum again.
It was just opening. The monk on the door, setting out his tickets and money tray for the day, greeted her with a smile and a deep bow: ‘Welcome back. You are my first customer today, madam.’
This time she didn’t pause to look at the exhibits. Instead, she walked quickly through the museum area and made straight for the shop that was set up in the last of the bamboo huts.
She looked around at the disappointing display. There were a few cheap trinkets on show, similar to the ones sold on the stalls beside the bridge – little metal models of the bridge, key-rings, pencils. There were a few postcards showing the bridge, the railway and various scenes from the surrounding countryside, and one or two books wrapped in yellowing cellophane. She picked them up and examined them. One was about the filming of The Bridge on the River Kwai, and the other was written in Thai script. The only thing that looked worth buying was an illustrated pamphlet written by the Buddhist monk who had founded the museum. Laura flicked through it. It summarised the history of the railway in simple terms. She bought it and a couple of postcards to send to Ken and Marge.
Smiling her thanks to the monk, she wandered out onto the road, feeling deflated, and started to head back towards the station. She walked past a row of stalls set up at the side of the road, mostly selling local produce. The stallholders shouted out greetings and waved to her as she passed. Tucked amongst the food vendors, a little way along the line, she was surprised to find a tiny stall selling a few dusty second-hand books.
She paused and looked at the books with idle curiosity. There were a lot of dated, heavily-thumbed paperback thrillers and Mills & Boon romances. An old man who had been gossiping with the stallholder next door ambled over and smiled at her.
‘Good morning, madam. Can I help you?’
‘I’m not sure. I’m looking for a book about the building of the railway.’
‘Oh, I only have one or two here. I don’t often get them. They are very difficult to find. Very rare.’
His head disappeared behind the stall. Laura could hear him rummaging under the table. He re-emerged a few minutes later with a wooden crate. He carried it round to the front of the stall and heaved it onto the table in front of Laura.
She peered inside. There were one or two old histories by military historians, titles that she remembered noticing on the
