Newcastle, early September
James was glad of the excuse to get out of the house. Tilly and Josey were engaged in a frenzy of packing and Mungo had gone ahead a week early to St Abbs to stay with his Uncle Johnny and go sailing. Since Tilly had discovered that Adela and Sam were leaving Newcastle, she had been all the more determined to press ahead quickly with the move to Jesmond, as if she feared he might have a change of heart too. In some unfathomable way, James felt his wife was blaming him for the young couple’s decision to return to India. ‘If you hadn’t kept going on about Belgooree . . . !’ Tilly had accused him.
James was just as sad as Tilly that Adela and Sam were soon to be going – they had a passage booked from Marseilles at the end of the month and were talking about a few days in Paris on the way – but he had to keep stopping himself from reminiscing about Belgooree in front of his wife. That had been easier since Adela and Sam had moved out. Rather than go to the Robsons’ new home, they had arranged to spend the last few weeks living with Sam’s mother in Cullercoats. He envied the young couple their closeness and ease with each other – the way Adela’s eyes lit up when Sam came into the room – and wondered if it would ever be like that with Tilly again. Perhaps it never had been; it certainly wasn’t now. Tilly continued to look at him as if he were a tiresome guest who kept getting in the way – that’s when she looked at him at all.
So on the days leading up to the move to Jesmond, James kept out of the way. He’d been up to Willowburn twice that week and was finally going to visit his former fellow planter, Fairfax – now well into his nineties – in his nursing home at Tynemouth.
The place had a pervasive smell of urine and boiled vegetables. He found the old man in his room, sitting in an armchair by the window dozing. James peered around before waking him. The room was a shrine to Fairfax’s time in India. The bed and chairs were covered in faded Kashmir woollen blankets and the room was cluttered with Indian tables displaying sports trophies, brass bowls and ivory ornaments. The walls were hung with framed photographs of Assam: hunting trips with men standing in front of tents or with their feet proudly on the animals they had just killed. There was one of a polo team. With a start, James recognised both himself and his cousin Wesley in the photograph.
Wesley had been a superior horseman to James and had taken quickly to the game of polo. In fact, Wesley had embraced the tea planting life with gusto the minute he had arrived in Assam. James had a stab of grief for his younger cousin. Often they had clashed over business, as well as over his marriage to Clarrie, which James had thought would be a disaster. But latterly, he had enjoyed Wesley’s company more and more, and come to realise that his cousin had the perfect life in India with his attractive, spirited wife and his family around him. Poor, dear man!
‘That you, Ali?’
James swung round to see his old mentor awake and peering myopically at him. His head was sparsely covered in a few wisps of white hair and his jowly face sagged like a bloodhound’s. But he still sported a bushy tobacco-stained moustache below his beaky nose.
‘No, sir; it’s Robson.’ He crossed the room. ‘James Robson.’
He held out his hand.
Fairfax frowned in confusion. ‘Robson?’ he queried.
‘From the Oxford Estates,’ James prompted. ‘We worked together before the Great War – and you were my best man here in Newcastle, remember?’
The old man’s faded brown eyes lit with recognition. ‘Young Robson!’ He took James’s hand in a surprisingly firm handshake. ‘How very good to see you!’
‘And you, sir.’ James thought it incongruous to be called young at the age of seventy but he had slipped straight back into his junior role in calling his old bachelor friend sir.
‘What brings you here, Robson? Home on furlough? How is the old place? I don’t get to hear from anyone these days. All my contemporaries are long in the ground.’ Fairfax waved a scrawny hand. ‘Pull up a chair, Robson. Sit close and speak up – hearing’s not tip-top these days.’
James sat on the chair opposite. ‘I’ve retired too,’ he said. ‘Been back in Newcastle since July.’
‘Not long then,’ said Fairfax.
‘No, I suppose not; though it feels like it.’
Fairfax snorted. ‘Give it ten years and you’ll feel part of the furniture. I still dream about the place though . . .’ The old man looked reflective.
James felt a familiar tension in his gut. His frighteningly vivid dreams of the plantation had hardly plagued him since returning to England. For that reason alone, he would stick it out in Newcastle with Tilly. He could cope with her aloofness towards him as long as he had peace of mind. Physical closeness would return given time.
‘That nice wife of yours,’ said Fairfax, ‘came to visit me while you were away. Cheery sort, Polly.’
‘Tilly,’ James corrected.
‘What?’
‘Tilly is my wife’s name.’
‘Yes, kind of her. You can count the number of visitors I get on one hand – or two thumbs!’ He broke into wheezy laughter.
James felt guilty for not coming sooner. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to but somehow he had kept putting it off. Was it his reluctance to talk about Danny Dunlop’s parentage and where such questions might lead? Ironically, it was Tilly who had suggested the visit, no doubt to get James out from under her feet while she organised the house move.
‘Let’s have a chota peg,’ suggested Fairfax. ‘Glasses and bottle are hidden in that bedside cabinet. Nurse doesn’t let me touch it before tiffin but this is a special occasion, eh what?’
Once James had poured them both a generous whisky, they fell to reminiscing about long-ago days on the tea plantation. An hour passed and the old man began to tire. His head was drooping and he was beginning to lose the thread of their conversation. James realised that if he didn’t ask about the Dunlops now then the chance would be gone.
Bracing himself, he pulled out the envelope from his inner jacket pocket. It was crumpled from being carried around for so long, but still unopened.
‘Just one thing before I go,’ said James. ‘I’ve been asked by an acquaintance to see if you remember any tea planters in your day called Dunlop.’
‘Dunlop?’ Fairfax frowned.
‘I have the details here,’ said James. ‘This man is keen to establish his British credentials – but I worry it will just stir up a hornet’s nest. He’s Anglo-Indian, you see.’
‘Anglo-Indian,’ Fairfax echoed.
‘Yes, what in our day we called Eurasian,’ said James.
‘Ah,’ said the old man, nodding in understanding. ‘There was a lot of that went on in the old days. Quite wrong, of course. Not fair on the children. What to do with them – always the problem.’
James felt his heart begin to beat erratically. ‘Yes, quite so.’
‘Well, read it to me,’ said Fairfax. ‘Can’t think of a Dunlop in Assam, mind you.’
James reached for an ivory letter opener on the table in the window, slit open the envelope and put on his reading glasses. His breath stopped. He stared at the neat list of facts about Danny Dunlop. It wasn’t possible! He felt winded with shock.
‘Not a tea planter anyway,’ Fairfax said, still searching his memory. ‘Though I did know of a Reverend Dunlop in Shillong. Or was he a doctor?’
James closed his eyes but he could still see the name seared behind his lids. Aidan Dunlop: born circa 1896, orphan of a Scottish planter in Assam, admitted to the Convent of the Sisters of the Holy Cross by Sister Placid.
Sweat broke out on his brow. His heart raced. The one thing that he had clung on to was that Danny stood for Daniel. But Danny clearly stood for Aidan, the name he had given the Logan boy. It could be no other child. Perhaps kind Sister Placid had given him the Scottish surname to give him a veneer of respectability.
‘Are you feeling all right, old boy?’ asked Fairfax, peering at him in concern.
James crumpled the letter. ‘No – yes – I . . .’ He tried to order his thoughts. ‘It doesn’t really tell us anything more. School in Shillong – ended up on the railways.’
The whisky curdled in his stomach. James thought he might be sick.
‘There you go,’ said Fairfax. ‘Dr Dunlop in Shillong – probably related.’
‘Yes,’ James said, balling the letter in his pocket as he stood up. ‘Well, I better be off. Tilly has got me moving house so I should get back to supervise.’
‘Dunlop, Dunlop . . .’ Fairfax had resumed a faraway look; he was lost in the past.
James regretted bringing up the subject. Why on earth hadn’t he opened the letter before now? Deep down he knew why: he had feared that digging into the past might raise long-buried ghosts. Suddenly he couldn’t wait to be gone from the stuffy tobacco-smelling room with its myriad reminders of the Oxford tea gardens.
He shook Fairfax by the hand. ‘Don’t get up, sir; I’ll see myself out. Good to see you.’
‘I’ve enjoyed our chin-wag about the old days, Robson.’ The old man smiled. ‘You will come again and see me, won’t you? No one in here has the foggiest idea about Assam.’
‘Yes, of course I will,’ James promised, making hastily for the door.
‘What a life we had, eh?’ Fairfax continued as James left. ‘Work hard, play harder . . . !’
James felt the bile rise in his throat at the words. A memory of the hateful Bill Logan saying just the same thing forced its way into his mind. He clattered out of the nursing home as fast as he could.
The night-terrors began again. James so alarmed Tilly that he offered to move into the room vacated by the Jackmans.
‘I don’t want to disturb you,’ he’d said when Tilly had asked him what was causing the nightmares.
‘Is it the house move?’ she asked in concern one night, following him into the spare bedroom. ‘If you’re that unhappy about it . . . ? Am I being too selfish?’
‘No, it’s nothing to do with that,’ said James. ‘It’s probably too many nightcaps before bed – or cheese or something.’
‘James,’ Tilly said, hovering in the doorway. Her expression softened. ‘Is this what it was like . . . ? Were you like this when you had your . . . exhaustion . . . when you went to Clarrie’s?’
James reddened. He was about to rebuff the suggestion and then decided to be honest. ‘Yes.’ He glanced away. ‘I couldn’t sleep and when I did I had these terrible dreams that were so real I thought I was experiencing them.’
Tilly came and sat down on the bed beside him. ‘Libby wrote and told me. I’m afraid I thought she was being over-dramatic as usual.’ She placed her hand over his – lightly, briefly. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have dismissed her worries.’
‘I wanted to confide in Libby,’ James admitted. ‘She’s so mature in many ways. But it didn’t seem fair to burden her . . .’
‘Burden her with what?’ Tilly asked gently. ‘James, we’ve been apart so long, I’ve no real idea what it’s been like for you. Is there something we can do?’
James felt a pang of affection for his wife and this glimpse of the old Tilly, the one who had fussed over and cared for him. Here she was, wrapped in a threadbare silk dressing gown that had once belonged to him, her hair loose about her shoulders, concerned about him once more. She looked almost girlish in the lamplight. How he missed their former companionship! Years ago, one of the things that had attracted him to Tilly was that he had found her so easy to talk to – her warmth of personality and ability to listen.
He took a deep breath. ‘I’m haunted by the past, Tilly,’ he confided. ‘I can’t get it out of my head.’
‘The War?’ Tilly guessed.
James shook his head. ‘Much longer ago – before I met you.’
‘Ancient history then,’ Tilly said with a wry look.
James gave her a fleeting smile. ‘Yes, when I was a young man at the Oxford.’
‘This isn’t to do with Sophie’s father, is it?’
James flinched. ‘How could you possibly know—?’
‘Darling, I was the one who unearthed it all, remember? Poking my nose into why the Logans were staying at Belgooree when Sam was born and Sophie was a little girl.’
James let out a sigh. ‘No, Tilly, it’s not about that. But it does involve Logan – before he was married. God, how I wish I had never worked for that wicked man!’
‘James!’ Tilly admonished. ‘You mustn’t say that. He was ill when he did that terrible thing.’
‘You mean murdered his wife and then committed suicide?’ James said angrily. ‘No, Logan wasn’t ill; he was a vicious, jealous, drunken bastard who mistreated his wife and was notorious for taking advantage of the tea pickers.’
Tilly gaped at him in shock. James felt himself shaking. All the old hatred for Logan and disgust at himself for doing his bidding surged through him. He waited for Tilly to defend Sophie’s father with excuses; his wife rarely saw fault in anyone – apart from in him and Libby.
‘Tell me,’ said Tilly softly. ‘I promise I’ll say nothing to Sam or Sophie.’
James felt his eyes sting with tears. Swallowing hard, he began to tell Tilly the secrets that he had buried for decades but which would no longer leave him in peace.
Adela was encouraged by the thawing of frosty relations between Tilly and James. Since they had moved into the Jesmond house a few days ago, they appeared to be getting on better.
Josey cautioned, ‘It’s not all sweetness and light, but at least they’ve stopped snapping at each other in front of others.’
‘Well, it’s a start,’ said Adela. ‘And I’m glad they’ve settled on the Jesmond house. I’m sure Major Gibson will let James go riding at Willowburn any time he wants – and follow the hunt.’
‘Tally-ho and all that,’ said Josey with a wink.
‘And what about you, Josey?’ Adela asked. ‘Are you happy to stay on living in the Robson household now that James is back?’
Josey paused. ‘I’m not a great fan of James,’ she admitted. ‘But I feel sorry for the man. He’s like a fish out of water in Newcastle . . . and I know he has nightmares – heard him shouting in the night on more than one occasion.’
‘Really?’ Adela asked in concern.
‘Yes. Tilly says it’s something to do with an incident at the plantation years ago but she won’t say what. She’s being kinder to him as a result. So I’ve decided to stay on with them and help Tilly. She and the children – well, they’re my family too. I feel more affection for them than I ever did for my own. I don’t want to go anywhere else – and Tilly has insisted that I stay.’
Adela smiled. ‘I’m not surprised; you’ve been a wonderful friend to her.’
Josey gave a droll look. ‘Having said that, I’m looking forward to a week on my own, looking after the house while the family are at St Abbs. Would you and Sam like to come round for supper one evening?’
‘Thanks, we’d love that.’
‘I’ll have a go at making you a curry, shall I?’ Josey suggested. ‘Or at least throw some curry powder into a fish pie.’
Adela grimaced. ‘Actually, I’m off—’ Abruptly she stopped herself. But Josey was immediately suspicious. Her eyes narrowed.
‘Off curry? Tell me, are you . . . ?’
Adela flushed.
‘You’re pregnant!’ Josey cried in glee.
Adela grinned and shushed her. ‘I think so. But don’t say anything. I haven’t told Sam yet and he hasn’t guessed. I want to be sure.’
Josey darted at Adela and threw her arms around her in a jubilant hug. ‘That’s the most wonderful news!’
Adela’s eyes welled with tears as she laughed and spluttered, ‘I know, isn’t it?’
Josey broke away and fished out her cigarettes. ‘Celebratory smoke?’
Adela pulled a face. ‘No thanks; I’ve lost the taste for those too.’
Josey chuckled. ‘Sweetie, it’s not going to take Sam long to work out why. Tell him.’
‘I will soon,’ said Adela. ‘When we get a quiet moment alone. We’re so busy. Jane’s only been back a week and the café business is already picking up.’
‘Leave her to it,’ said Josey. ‘You need to start putting your feet up.’
‘Not yet,’ said Adela. ‘And Joan’s gracing us with her presence this weekend. I said we’d have an early fourth birthday party for Bonnie at the café. I want to see the girl before we go – and we won’t be here in October for her birthday. Jane’s doing most of the organising but I want to help. Jane’s excited to see her niece again and determined that she’s going to keep in touch with George’s daughter.’
Josey gave a wry chuckle. ‘Except us two know that Bonnie is no more George’s daughter than she is the King’s.’
Adela gave her a warning look. ‘Which neither of us is ever going to tell.’
‘My lips are sealed, sweetie,’ said Josey with an earthy laugh, as smoke escaped from her nostrils.
With each day, Adela’s impatience to be travelling back to India grew. She knew that many people thought her and Sam mad for heading back to a country that Britain was so quickly disengaging from and where there was an upsurge in violence since Partition, but to her and Sam, India would always be home. Deep down, she also knew that she needed to get away from Newcastle and put the pain of her failure to find John Wesley behind her. Perhaps distance would help her come to terms with the past more quickly.
Now that she was almost certain that she was pregnant again, Adela was filled with a new excitement and urgency to get back to her mother and Belgooree. It would be a fresh start for her and Sam – how pleased he would be to be a father at last – and this time she would enjoy her pregnancy. There would be no shameful hiding of her pregnant state or cruel separation from her baby. This one would be loved unconditionally. Her emotions see-sawed between tearfulness and euphoria as she contemplated the future.
Adela’s plan to hand over the café to Jane was going smoothly and it was an added joy to discover that Jane was still the caring, slightly reserved but unflappable woman that Adela remembered.
They had fallen immediately into their old friendship, though this time Jane was more ready to tease Adela back. Her cousin had grown in confidence since living away. Sam said he was struck by the family resemblance between Adela and her dark-haired cousin.
‘Mother says that we both take after our Grandmama Jane who married our grandfather, Jock Belhaven,’ Adela had told him. ‘He was the first tea planter at Belgooree. Mother has a photograph of her parents and my cousin looks very like our grandmother – more than I do.’
Adela also liked Jane’s cheerful, red-cheeked husband with his bluff Yorkshire humour. Charlie Latimer had a knack of cajoling the staff into doing Jane’s bidding in the kitchen while entertaining them with lurid catering stories from his time in the army. He had twice the patience that Adela did. She wrote to Clarrie full of confidence that the café would not only survive under its new management, but also thrive.
As Adela’s thoughts turned increasingly to India and Belgooree, she hungered for news, but her mother had not written since shortly after the Independence celebrations. Sam was reassuring.
‘Your mother will be run off her feet in the gardens at this time of year,’ he said. ‘The factory will be at full production.’
Adela put her hands around his face and kissed him in affection. ‘You sound like a tea planter already,’ she teased.
He caught her round the waist and tugged her closer. ‘I can’t wait.’ He grinned and kissed her robustly back.
On the afternoon of Bonnie’s birthday party, Adela felt even more queasy than usual. She had been busy all morning helping to decorate the café and had hardly stopped to eat or drink.
‘Sit down for a minute,’ Jane ordered, ‘and have a sandwich. You’ve lost all your colour. I hope you’re not sickening for something?’
‘Thanks.’ Adela didn’t argue. ‘Just five minutes’ rest will do it.’
They had partitioned off half the café for the birthday tea and a space had been cleared for games, which Sam was going to organise while Charlie Latimer bashed out tunes on the old piano. Adela had hoped her Aunt Olive would be persuaded out of her house but Jane had shaken her head.
‘Mam won’t come. You know how she hates crowds. I’ll get Joan to stop off with Bonnie and see her before they go back to Willowburn.’
Soon the café was filling with children and their mothers: friends and relations of Joan’s. Adela had to admit that George’s ex-wife was popular and she felt guilty for resenting her. It wasn’t just because of loyalty to her cousin George whom Adela felt had been wronged by Joan’s infidelity. Adela had to admit that she still harboured a residual jealousy towards Joan for another reason. While Adela had been hiding in disgrace for being pregnant and had had to give up her baby, Joan had got away with her affair. George had gallantly married her and taken on another man’s child. Adela swallowed down resentment as she watched an excited Bonnie arrive, dressed in flounces of pink right down to her ankles and clutching Joan’s hand. Bonnie slipped Joan’s hold and skipped across to her Auntie Jane, who immediately began making a fuss of her niece.
Abruptly, Adela was seized by a yearning for John Wesley so acute that she thought she would pass out. She gripped her stomach and tried to hide her distress. It would pass; it always did. She just had to endure it for a moment or two. She never knew when the sense of loss would take hold of her. Little things triggered it: the sight of a baby being pushed in a pram or a boy kicking a football in a back lane. But the bouts of grief had lessened since her decision to give up the search.
It was probably being pregnant that was making her feel suddenly teary. The thought that she was carrying her and Sam’s baby gave her immediate comfort. Adela stood up and went to join her husband, slipping a hand into his. He gave her a quizzical smile, squeezed her hand and turned to deal with a couple of small boys who were already fighting over a balloon.
As Charlie started to play ‘Three Blind Mice’, Adela put on a smile and greeted Joan and her new husband Tommy. She liked Major Gibson’s head groom, though they had only met briefly on a couple of occasions. Joan was enjoying showing him off and playing the country lady. She was dressed in a smart tweed jacket over a linen dress, her blonde hair neatly coiffured and with only the slightest hint of make-up.
‘Joany tells me you’re going back to India,’ said Tommy.
‘Yes,’ Adela replied. ‘We’ll be joining my family and helping on the tea garden.’
‘That’s grand,’ he said, ‘isn’t it Joany?’
Joan was beaming at Adela with that look that Adela had always found so disconcerting: half assessing, half vacant, as if she was only partially listening.
‘Grand, yes,’ she agreed.
‘You must come up to the stables before you go,’ Tommy said. ‘Mr Robson says how you and Mr Jackman like to ride. You’d both be welcome. Wouldn’t they, Joany?’
‘Thank you,’ said Adela. ‘We’ve been meaning to but haven’t found the time.’
‘I’m learning to ride,’ said Joan, putting a possessive hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Tommy’s teaching me so I can accompany Martha Gibson.’
Adela looked at her in surprise. She thought Joan’s boasting about being friends with the major’s wife had been exaggerated.
‘You can ride with me and Martha if you like,’ Joan said, smiling.
Adela smiled back. ‘I’d like that. James has told me about her. She sounds a nice woman.’
‘She is,’ said Joan. ‘She’s not snobbish like the other gentry. Must be ’cause she’s American. And generous too. She gave me this dress; it’s from New York. Says so on the label.’
‘It suits you,’ said Adela.
‘And I help do her hair,’ said Joan. ‘She used to have it very old-fashioned.’
‘They’re best of friends already,’ Tommy said proudly. ‘And the Gibsons’ son thinks the world of Joany too – he follows her around like her shadow.’
‘Like my shadow,’ Joan repeated.
‘Joany’s a natural with kiddies,’ Tommy said proudly.
Adela felt her nausea returning. ‘Help yourself to tea and sandwiches, won’t you? I must help Sam with the games.’
‘And Mrs Gibson bought the dress Bonnie’s wearing,’ Joan continued. ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’
Adela thought it was rather fussy, and the small girl was already tripping on its hem trying to run about.
‘Bonnie looks very pretty,’ Adela answered as she turned to go and help with the children.
Amid the shrieking and laughter, Sam was pairing up the children to play ‘Oranges and Lemons’. Bonnie rushed up to Adela and seized her hand. ‘You play with me, Auntie Delly!’
‘Love to,’ said Adela, kissing her on her matching pink hairband.
They marched round in a chaotic circle, Sam leading the raucous singing. Bonnie squealed with delight when she and Adela were caught in Sam’s arms as the music stopped.
‘Again! Again!’ Bonnie cried.
After that, they played musical bumps and Sam tried to teach them the hokey-cokey. The children ended up running into each other deliberately and an older boy stepped on Bonnie’s dress which made her fall over and bang her knee. She burst into tears. Sam scooped her up and declared it was time for birthday cake.
At the sight of Jane carrying in a large iced cake with candles lit, Bonnie’s wailing quickly subsided. While Sam sat her at the head of the table and Bonnie blew out her candles, the other children scrambled for seats and were soon tucking into the birthday tea.
Adela tried to quell her queasiness by sipping tea and eating cake. The smell of the paste sandwiches and pork pies was turning her stomach. She watched Sam as he showed the children a trick he did with his hands that made it look like his thumb was falling off. He was so good with the children; he would make a loving father to their child. Adela felt a flood of affection for her husband. She couldn’t wait for the party to be over and to have him to herself so she could tell him her news. There was no doubt in her mind now that she was carrying their baby.
Charlie continued at the piano during tea, playing popular tunes. Some of the parents were gathering around him, singing along.
‘Get Adela to sing for you,’ Sam called out, giving his wife a smile of encouragement.
Lexy, who was sitting beside the piano clapping along to the music, shouted, ‘Gan on, hinny; give them a Toodle Pips special.’
Adela took little persuasion: hearing her old favourites being played made her want to get up and dance. Soon she was singing ‘Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree’, followed by other songs that had proved popular during the recent war. The café rang to the sound of voices joining in the chorus and Charlie’s enthusiastic piano playing. Nobody seemed to mind the children racing around the café, jumping off the chairs and playing ‘tiggy-on-high’ while the adults sang their nostalgic songs.
Eventually, it was time for the café to close and the party to end. Bonnie burst into tears. ‘I don’t w-want to go home!’ she blubbered. ‘I w-want to stay with Uncle Sam!’
Joan and Tommy had to coax her away with promises that Sam and Adela would come and visit her very soon. Her Aunt Jane produced a sticky toffee apple which brought a smile back to her face.
With the guests gone, they began to clear up.
‘We can finish this,’ said Jane, ‘if you two want to go. You’ve earned a rest after the games and sing-song.’
Sam was helping Lexy to her feet. Lexy said, ‘Aye, you look done in, hinny. Get yersel’ away home.’
Sam gave Adela a concerned look. ‘Aren’t you feeling well?’
‘I’m fine; we’ll stay,’ said Adela. ‘It won’t take long if we all give a hand.’
‘Come up and see me before you go,’ said Lexy, making her way towards the stairs as Adela began to brush crumbs from the tablecloths. Sam and Charlie pulled the tables and chairs back into their usual positions. Charlie stooped to pick something from the floor.
‘Must have come off when the children were playing,’ he said, holding up a chain to the light. ‘Or maybe it belongs to one of the mothers.’
Adela glanced round; she noticed Lexy had stopped too and was staring at the upheld pendant.
‘Give it to Jane,’ said Sam. ‘They’ll come back for it when they realise they’ve dropped it.’
‘Doesn’t look worth the bother,’ said Charlie. ‘Just an old pebble of some sort.’
Adela saw the chain glint in the light, a pinkish stone dangling from it. Something about it made her peer closer.
‘Let’s see,’ said Adela.
Charlie held it out to her. ‘Is it yours?’
Adela’s heart fluttered. She took it from him and laid it on her open palm. Her heart began to pound. She ran a finger and thumb over the smooth pink stone. It was almost heart-shaped. Adela’s breath stopped in her throat. The chain was familiar too, with its old-fashioned catch. She sat down quickly. How was this possible? It didn’t make sense!
‘Darling, are you all right?’ Sam asked at once, coming to sit beside her.
Lexy turned back from the stairs. ‘Adela?’
Adela stared at the necklace, trying to catch her breath.
‘What is it?’ Sam asked, putting a hand to Adela’s clammy brow. ‘Are you going to be sick?’
Adela couldn’t speak. Pressure like an iron weight was building up in her chest, smothering her.
‘Fetch a glass of water,’ Lexy said to Charlie, as she lumbered towards Adela. Charlie rushed off into the kitchen where Jane and Doreen were washing up.
‘Let me see,’ said Lexy, lifting the necklace from Adela’s shaking hand. Lexy scrutinised it and then looked at Adela, her eyes widening in shock.
‘It’s Clarrie’s, isn’t it?’ she said quietly. ‘I remember her wearing it.’
Adela nodded, her throat tightening with emotion.
Sam looked baffled. ‘How can that be? Is this yours, Adela? I’ve never seen you wear it.’
Adela struggled to speak. ‘Yes, it’s mine,’ she croaked. ‘Mother gave it to me . . .’
‘So when did you lose it?’ Sam asked.
‘Before the War,’ she whispered.
‘Surely it hasn’t been lying here all this time?’ Sam said in astonishment.
‘No,’ said Adela. She felt herself begin to shake all over. She wasn’t sure if she was going to faint or be sick.
Sam’s arm went around her. ‘Well, at least you’ve got it back now.’
‘Tell him,’ said Lexy softly.
‘Tell me what?’ Sam asked, frowning.
At that moment, Charlie reappeared with a glass of water. Lexy took it from him.
‘Just give them a minute, will you?’ she asked. Charlie nodded and retreated through the kitchen door which swung behind him.
Adela looked at Lexy, her heart thumping.
‘Go on, lass,’ her old friend encouraged.
Adela swallowed hard. ‘Mother was given this necklace by the swami who lived in the clearing above Belgooree – for good luck and protection. When I came to England in ’38 she gave it to me for the same reason.’ She struggled with how to tell him the next detail.
‘And?’ Sam said gently.
Adela met his look. His eyes were so full of compassion that it gave her the courage to tell him the truth. ‘The day John Wesley was taken away I – I wrapped the necklace in his blanket and told Maggie to ask the mission women to keep it with him. It was my most important possession and it was all I had to give him. I hoped it would keep him safe . . .’
She tensed, expecting to see his expression change to disappointment or resentment at her mentioning John Wesley again. But Sam laid a hand tenderly on her head and pulled her to him, cradling her against his strong shoulder. Adela’s eyes brimmed with tears.
‘But how’s it got here?’ Lexy asked, baffled.
‘I don’t know,’ said Adela tearfully. ‘Did you see one of the mothers wearing it?’
‘No,’ said Lexy with a shake of the head. ‘But someone here today must know where it came from.’
Adela’s heart began to pound. She tried to recall all of the children who had been at the party. Perhaps one of the girls was a step-sister to John Wesley? Or was one of the women who had been singing around the piano her son’s second adoptive mother? But maybe none of them had anything to do with her boy and the necklace had been given away or sold years ago to raise funds for the mission.
Yet something that Tilly had said about the Belgian Segals gave Adela hope that they had kept the swami’s stone with her son. When Tilly had rescued the infant from the Anderson shelter after the bombing raid, she said he had been found with a small box of possessions; from what she could remember there were a handful of photographs, keepsakes and a floppy miniature teddy bear.
Adela felt sure the kind Segals would have kept the necklace and that this would have been handed on to whoever had taken on her son next. What if it was someone who had been there that very afternoon? Adela was suddenly overwhelmed by the shock. Bile rose in her throat. She tore herself from Sam’s hold and bolted for the kitchen door.
Clamping a hand over her mouth, Adela didn’t stop until she was out in the backyard breathing in gulps of air. Her head spun. Her throat watered. Adela doubled over and retched into the gutter. She couldn’t stop. She vomited until her insides felt hollow and sore. Even though her eyes were tight shut, she was aware of Sam there beside her, holding her hair away from her face and rubbing her back.
When the spasms finally stopped, Adela felt so weak she would have collapsed if Sam had not been holding her firmly in his arms. He stroked her hair. Adela realised that she was still clutching the necklace tightly in her hand. It pressed into her palm, a painful reminder of all she had lost. Her longing to find John Wesley returned with a new ferocity. Yet would her marriage survive if she started searching again? What on earth did they do now?
‘You mustn’t upset yourself like this, Adela,’ Sam said in gentle reproof.
Adela looked at him with a mixture of tenderness and sorrow.
‘Sam, this isn’t just because I’m upset,’ Adela said, feeling utterly drained. ‘It’s because I’m pregnant.’