‘How can I get in touch?’ His voice was quiet. No enthusiasm. Evie realised he hadn’t smiled once.
She pulled a scrap of paper from her jacket pocket. ‘Do you have a pencil?’ He handed her his fountain pen and she scribbled her address down and passed it to him.
‘Thanks. We’ll talk.’ He put the paper in his pocket and, nodding, walked away.
Evie was crushed. Deflated. Didn’t he care for her any more? He had behaved like a stranger. Her heart was breaking.
The journey home passed in a daze. After explaining to Jasmine that yes, it had indeed been Uncle Arthur, but he’d had to rush off for a meeting, she gathered their things together and ushered the children out of the restaurant.
On the train, Evie left Jasmine to respond to Hugh’s chatter, and stared unseeing through the grimy train window, remembering that other train taking them through the Malayan night, away from Arthur and into an unknown future. She remembered the way he had held her on that station platform five years ago, when he’d promised they would one day be together. The feel of his lips as they brushed lightly against hers, amid the chaos of the platform at Butterworth. The way his eyes had looked into hers as though he were looking into her soul. Yet, the same man, the man she loved beyond reason, had stood in front of her, unsmiling, avoiding her eyes, before leaving her without even so much as a touch of his hand.
32
Not for the first time, Evie had cause to be grateful for the kindness and perception of her daughter. Jasmine sensed that all was not well with her mother. When they arrived home, Jasmine offered to cook the supper. When Evie sat listlessly at the table without eating, Jasmine saw Hugh to bed, telling Evie she herself would be having an early night and suggested Evie do the same.
The last thing Evie wanted was to go to bed. It would be a sleepless night. Better to delay the inevitable. She poured herself a rare gin and sat down to think through what had happened that afternoon.
Arthur had treated her like a stranger. How was it possible? Evie began to doubt everything. Had he been playing a game with her all along? But that was inconceivable. She knew as clearly as she knew her own mind, that there had been no dissembling in Arthur’s declarations of love.
She asked herself if Veronica’s presence had enabled him to love Evie at a protected distance and now that Veronica was dead, he was no longer interested, wanting only what he couldn’t have?
None of it made any sense. Over and over and round and round she went, trying to imagine what had wrought such a change in Arthur.
She remembered how Mary had been. How she had said she’d feel awkward and out of place in Britain. Perhaps that was more a result of what had happened to her at the hands of the Japanese than a case of her not knowing England. Was it his wartime experiences that had made Arthur so closed and cold towards her?
She got up and poured herself another drink. She rarely drank at all these days and never alone, but she needed something to blot out all these confused feelings and the loss and grief that had hit her like a train. For it was indeed grief. She was mourning the loss of a dream. Of a man that perhaps no longer existed or maybe had only existed inside her head.
Sipping the gin, feeling the warmth of the spirit in her throat, she started to cry. Big silent tears. She let them flow. After tonight, she wouldn’t allow herself that indulgence again. But now, in the moment, there was no point in trying to stop the tears. Forget Arthur. Forget Penang. Forget everything except those beautiful children sleeping upstairs, she told herself.
The gin must have made her drowsy, as she woke with a start, curled up on the sofa, at the sound of the doorbell. Evie got to her feet and went to the door. No one called in the evenings. And she knew so few people. Scarcely able to breathe, she opened the door, knowing with absolute certainty that Arthur would be standing there.
As soon as she saw him she knew her love for him was as strong as ever.
He looked wretched. ‘I’m sorry, Evie.’ He drew her into his arms and they stood there for a couple of moments on the doorstep, her face buried in the rough tweed of his coat.
‘May I come in? I need to explain.’
Evie stepped backwards and took his hand, leading him into the drawing room. ‘Would you like a drink?’ she said. ‘I have no whisky but you’re welcome to have a gin.’
He shook his head. ‘A cup of tea would be nice.’
Still nervous, and unsure where things stood between them, she went into the kitchen and busied herself making the tea, her hands shaking. When she got back, he was pacing up and down in front of the fireplace. She handed him the tea but he put it aside on the mantlepiece.
‘I wasn’t completely straight with you before. I knew you hadn’t died in Singapore and had got to Australia. I’d been a party to the evacuation plans. All the records were destroyed in the war but I found out the ship you would have left on got safely to Australia.’
‘Why didn’t you contact me?’ She looked at him helplessly, as he continued to pace up and down. She sank into a chair.
‘I didn’t think you’d want to see me. To have anything to do with me.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because so much time had passed. You must have built a new life.’ He hesitated. ‘And because of what happened to me. Because of what I’ve become.’
‘You’re speaking in riddles, Arthur.’ Evie felt
