Oriental Hotel Page 5

  I should like to die in this room, she mused, and then scolded herself. I’m sixty-four years old and I have no intention of dying for a very long time yet. There are still too many things I want to do, too many things I want to see – for instance, Katy happily married to a man who is worthy of her love …

  ‘Mrs Sanderson?’

  Dozing, she had not heard the tap on the door. Now she looked up to see Mrs Parsons standing in the doorway, carrying a tray with hot chocolate and a plate of biscuits.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Parsons, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.’

  ‘Not to worry, Mrs Sanderson. But you do look exhausted. Let me help you get ready for bed; then you can have your drink comfortably propped up against the pillows.’

  Elise smiled, getting to her feet with an effort and standing patiently while Mrs Parsons unfastened the long zip at the back of her apricot silk dress and let it slide down over her hips to a soft bundle at her feet.

  ‘Now, let me see, where’s your nightdress …’ She crossed to the bed and Elise waited obediently, only easing off her slip and bra when Mrs Parsons returned with the nightgown, a simple Janet Reger sheath of cream silk.

  ‘Now, into bed with you, Ma’am.’ The housekeeper turned the covers aside, eased her mistress beneath them and tucked them over once more with calm efficiency. Then she brought the tray of hot chocolate and biscuits, setting it down on the table beside the bed.

  ‘You’ll be all right now, Mrs Sanderson, won’t you? If I know anything about it you’ll be asleep before I’ve had a chance to lock up the house …’ She had crossed the room as she spoke, but now in the doorway she stopped suddenly. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot!’

  ‘Nearly forgot what?’ Elise asked, reaching for the cup of chocolate.

  ‘The gentleman who phoned up for you. He was quite put out when I told him you were out. It seems he is very anxious to see you and is only in this country for a day or two. Here from Hong Kong, I think he said.’

  ‘Hong Kong?’ Elise was suddenly sharply awake.

  ‘That’s right. Anyway, he said he would take a chance and run out here tomorrow afternoon. I told him to ring first for an appointment, but he took no notice of me – just said he didn’t know if he would have time to ring again and would I tell you to expect him. I thought perhaps it was somebody you and Mr Sanderson knew when you were out in the Far East.’

  There was a stillness within Elise that she could not explain, a strange, suspended waiting as if breath was trapped within her lungs and her very heart had stopped beating. ‘Did he give his name, Mrs Parsons?’

  The housekeeper nodded. ‘ Yes, he did. Brittain, he said – Mr Brittain.’ Then, as she saw the change come over Elise’s face, saw the cup shake violently in her hand, she took a quick alarmed step back into the room. ‘Mrs Sanderson, what is it? Are you all right?’

  Elise scarcely heard her. The voice was blurred, muffled by the roaring in her ears; the familiar room was spinning before her eyes. With a tremendous effort she controlled the cup, but the fine bone china clinked dangerously as she set it down heavily on the bedside table.

  Mr Brittain. Brit! It wasn’t possible …

  ‘Mrs Parsons …’ Elise’s voice rasped slightly as if shock had dried every drop of saliva.

  ‘I’m sorry if I did wrong.’ The housekeeper hovered anxiously. It wasn’t like her mistress to act this way; she was usually so calm, so much in control of herself. ‘ I should have insisted, I suppose, but he didn’t give me the chance, really.’

  No, he wouldn’t, thought Elise. Brit had always had his way, never stood on formality … She shook herself – it couldn’t possibly be Brit!

  ‘Did he give his Christian name?’ She could hear her voice rising and fought to keep it level.

  ‘No, Ma’am, I don’t know that he did.’ Mrs Parsons’ round face was creased with anxiety. ‘You don’t have to see him if it’s going to upset you. I can send him packing if he shows his face here tomorrow.’

  ‘No!’ Elise said sharply. Then more quietly, ‘ No, there is no need to do that, Mrs Parsons. I would like to see him.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure, Ma’am …’

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ she said aloud. She must be going crazy. The whole world was going crazy …

  ‘Now look, Mrs Sanderson, what you need is a good night’s rest.’ Mrs Parsons came back to smooth the covers once more, still unsure what she had done to upset the mistress she adored and taking refuge in a pretence of normality. ‘ Would you like one of the tablets the doctor left when you sprained your ankle last year? That would help you to sleep, most likely.’

  Elise shook her head, for she hated taking drugs of any kind. She hadn’t taken the doctor’s tablets even when her ankle had been most painful and she certainly had no intention of taking them now. Besides, there was no way any tablet could ease the ache in her heart.

  ‘I’ll just drink my chocolate, Mrs Parsons. I’m fine now. And you’re not to worry about the gentleman who telephoned – it was just a bit of a shock, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, if you’re quite sure …’ Uncertainly Mrs Parsons turned once more to the door and Elise summoned a determined smile.

  ‘Goodnight, Mrs Parsons. Sleep well.’

  ‘And you, Ma’am,’ came the reply.

  But Elise knew that tired as she was she would not sleep now.

  She set down her cup once more and turned off the light above her bed, then lay staring into the darkness while the memories came flooding in. Herself, twenty-three years old and looking, if she was honest, very much as Katy looked today. Gordon, vitally youthful in spite of his forty-five years. And a young man in RAF uniform: tall, athletically built, with broad shoulders and hard muscles. She half closed her eyes and across the years his face came tantalisingly into focus for just a moment before it was gone again – dark hair springing strongly away from an angular face, a slightly crooked nose, cool hazel eyes and a scar that ran jaggedly down the side of his cheek. Brit as she had known and loved him.

  But Brit was dead. She had seen him die. Forty years had passed since that day and she had known he must be dead. Nothing else made sense.

  Slowly the long hours of the night slid by. Towards dawn Elise dozed, but her sleep was punctuated by the chaos of her thoughts.

  With daylight common sense began to prevail, and determinedly she pushed the persistent memories to the back of her mind. It was crazy, ridiculous, that just one mention of a name from so long ago should have this effect on her. And to begin living in the past now, when there was so much in the present to claim her attention, was the sheerest folly.

  Yet as she busied herself with the everyday tasks – her mail, her files, plans for the Flower Show which only yesterday had seemed so important – Elise was conscious of a feeling of breathless waiting, the blood coursing in her veins each time the telephone rang, her heart seeming to miss a beat whenever she heard footsteps or a car engine on the valley road.

  It was late afternoon when the doorbell rang. The weather was less fine than on the previous day, with thunder in the air, and Elise was working not in the garden but in the sitting room. As the bell pealed in the stillness of the house, she recalled that Mrs Parsons had gone to the village to shop. Someone else would probably answer the door if she left it, she thought – Evans, or maybe even one of the gardeners if they were in the vicinity. But in fact she did not want the door answered by any of them.

  She put her papers aside and stood up, a slim figure in a flowered silk dress of palest pinks and mauves, and gently touched her cap of soft silver curls to ensure their tidiness.

  She crossed the hall, where the scent of roses still hung heavily, to the door which stood ajar to the heat of the afternoon. For just a second she hesitated, her breath coming a little too fast, her heart thudding uncomfortably. Then she raised her hand and opened the door.

  He stood on the top step, a tall man with springy hair and cool hazel eyes, a half-expectant smile on his strong-boned,
angular face. The beat of her heart seemed to increase in tempo until it resembled the ticking of a loud and erratic clock; against the door jamb her fingers tightened, whitening beneath the pressure, and her knees felt weak beneath her.

  For a moment she could neither move nor speak, then her breath came out on a whispered sigh.

  ‘Brit!’ she said.

  And on that summer afternoon, in the heart of the Gloucestershire countryside, it seemed that the years were rolling away, bearing her back through timeto another life when she had been young, frightened yet determined, and alone amid the ravages of a war-torn world.

  PART TWO

  1941

  Chapter Five

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Sanderson. It is quite out of the question for you to return to Hong Kong. This is wartime. You simply cannot go rushing about the world as if you were going to a tea party.’

  Frederick Langley, Vice-Consul at the British Embassy in Cairo, leaned forward over his elegantly padded desk, his rotund face pink and exasperated.

  ‘I would have hoped I had made myself clear by now,’ he added, glaring accusingly at the young woman who sat opposite him.

  ‘And I hoped I had made it clear that I am not rushing about the world, as you put it. Can’t you understand? I just want to go home!’

  With a decisive movement she snapped her crocodile clutch-bag down on the table and almost unconsciously he priced it. Expensive, like the matching crocodile pumps and deceptively simple dress of blue shantung silk. Expensive, like her gold jewellery and the sapphire that sparkled above the wedding ring.

  But even he, sceptic that he was, had to admit that the first thing one noticed about Elise Sanderson was not the trappings of wealth but her face: features finely chiselled and tanned to a warm gold beneath the crowning cap of honey-coloured hair; beautiful amber eyes and a mouth which though softly curving seemed somehow oddly determined. Just now the eyes were narrowed, desperation making them sparkle behind their fringe of thick, dark lashes, and the mouth was set in a firm line. Looking at it, Frederick Langley sighed.

  Why in heaven’s name had he joined the Diplomatic Service, he wondered. As if it were not bad enough to be banished to an arid, Godforsaken country like Egypt where the heat, the dust and the flies made it a full-time occupation to hold on to a modicum of good temper, in addition he was expected to deal with foolish expatriates who could not, or would not, understand the simple facts he had to set before them.

  It was 1941 and the world was at war. England and Germany were bombing the hearts out of one another’s cities and most of Europe was occupied by Hitler’s armies. Here in North Africa the Italians had chanced their arm, attempting to invade Egypt, though General O’Connor had been ready for them and was pushing them westwards towards Cyrenaica; while in the Far East, Japan was an ever-constant threat.

  Already the Japanese were in China; if they decided to move, the whole of Malaysia would fall to them and the first place to fall would be Hong Kong.

  The Government had realised this. They had begun evacuating women and children the previous summer and sending them to safety in Australia; although public outcry had caused the evacuations to halt, the Secretary of State for the Colonies was adamant that it was not safe for those who had left to return.

  Yet however often he explained the situation to her, Elise Sanderson refused to understand and his patience – never his strongest quality – was fast running out.

  Frederick Langley sighed again, mopping at his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief and composing himself for another onslaught.

  ‘Mrs Sanderson, Hong Kong is greatly at risk from invasion by the Japanese and the women and children were evacuated for their own safety. You must realise …’

  ‘But the evacuations have stopped now.’ The young woman leaned forward, one small tanned fist pressed on the padded desk top. ‘And in any case, I wasn’t evacuated. I left of my own accord, for personal reasons, before the evacuations started.’

  ‘And now, for personal reasons, you want to return.’ Langley’s face assumed a bland, disapproving look.

  At some time during one of their interminable interviews he felt sure she had explained to him why she was so anxious to return to Hong Kong – and why she had left to travel to Egypt in wartime in the first place. Had it been to visit the bedside of her dying mother? Yes, he rather fancied that was so. But now the reason seemed to him totally irrelevant.

  ‘I am sorry, Mrs Sanderson, but the Secretary of State for the Colonies still believes Hong Kong to be at risk,’ he said, speaking slowly as if to a child. ‘And I personally happen to agree with him.’

  He saw the quick flash of exasperation that momentarily lit her face.

  ‘I’ve heard all this before and it makes no difference. I have to get back to Hong Kong.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated, scraping back his chair to indicate that the interview was at an end. ‘I cannot help you, and even if I could there would be no way you could get a passage. Virtually all shipping is requisitioned by the Ministry of Transport. My advice is to resign yourself to remaining here until this wretched war ends, or else to put your energies into getting yourself to Australia, whence the other expatriates have been evacuated. And now …’

  He extended his hand but she ignored it, pushing back her chair and rising. She was not a tall woman, five feet four inches at most, but her anger seemed to add inches to her stature.

  ‘I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time,’ she said stiffly. ‘ But I think I should give you fair warning that I intend to get back to Hong Kong. And if I cannot do it your way, then I will find another. I’ll go on and on until I drop if I must, but I promise you, Mr Langley, that I will succeed eventually.’

  She turned abruptly so that the honey-gold hair swirled for a moment against the nape of her neck and he watched her stalk, straight-backed, out of the room.

  What a woman! he thought. Totally blind to the realities of the situation. Yet for all his exasperation, he had to admit that there was something about her which commanded admiration. A fool she might be, but often enough in his clashes with her he had seen that she had spirit. And to fight as she was fighting for what she wanted, demanded more than a little courage.

  Sighing, he mopped his brow once more and turned his attention to the pile of papers on his desk. Perhaps when this wretched war was over he would get a more congenial posting – always assuming that England emerged victorious, of course. At the moment, here in North Africa, things were looking good. But the news from other parts of the world was not so cheering. On reflection, perhaps Cairo was the most comfortable place to be at the moment, however unpleasant the climate, and it was high time the lovely but stubborn Mrs Sanderson came to the same conclusion.

  When Elise marched out of the Embassy office, the flame of anger within her made it easy to keep her head high. How dare that stuffed shirt of a Vice-Consul talk to her as if she were a child? she asked herself furiously. How dare he patronise her and tell her what to do?

  But out in the streets of Cairo, where the bright sunshine glanced off the white-painted buildings with a sharpness that hurt the eyes and the sky stretched clear and blue from horizon to horizon, desperation was once more predominant – spreading and gradually consuming the healing anger until she felt the whole of her body weighed down by it.

  Her steps slowed, her feet leaden on the hot pavements, and in her throat a knot that she knew heralded tears threatened to choke her. With a small, characteristic grimace she swallowed at it; tears would do no good, although sometimes the temptation to give in to them was almost unbearable.

  For four months now she had fought these wooden, emotionless bureaucrats. She might as well have battled with the Sphinx itself, for always, no matter how she argued and pleaded, the answer was the same: that women and children were being evacuated from Hong Kong for their own safety and she could not be allowed to return there. The Colony was much too vulnerable.

  Why in the name of
heaven did I leave? she asked herself for the hundredth time as she raised a hand to summon a horse-drawn gharry to drive her back to Shepheard’s Hotel. Why didn’t I foresee what might happen? But in the bustle of Hong Kong’s business world and the gaiety and gra-ciousness of the colonial social whirl, war had seemed an empty threat – virtually an impossibility. In June, when she had left, nothing had changed. There were still orchestral dinners nightly on the open-air terrace at the Peninsula Hotel and dancing in the Rose Room. And if Gordon, her husband, had experienced any reduction in the business he was able to generate from his small new electronics factory on Hong Kong Island, he had said nothing to her about it.

  As for the war in Europe, that had seemed a world away and if there were any warning signs of trouble from Japan, she had been unaware of them. Or perhaps she had wanted to be unaware, she thought; for when the letter had arrived from Cairo telling her that her mother was dying of lung cancer, nothing had been important but that she should go to her.

  ‘I must, Gordon, I must!’ Her voice had trembled with the shock that ran through her in chilling waves, and Gordon had held her hand in his – wanting only to ease her stricken look, yet reluctant to let her go.

  ‘It’s a long way, Elise; she wouldn’t expect it.’

  ‘I don’t care what she expects. She’s all alone, Gordon.’

  ‘She has her husband.’

  ‘The Brigadier!’ Elise had snorted, her dislike for her stepfather evident in her tone. ‘You know what he’s like as well as I do. He arranges everything to suit his own convenience. Please, Gordon – I wouldn’t stay long. If she’s as ill as she sounds, it will all be over very soon anyway. But I must see her; I must try to put things right.’