We went out through the French doors into well-tended grounds which climbed and dipped in all directions, reminding us we were near the crest of a hill. As I followed Sister Belinda past flower beds abloom with geraniums and tulips, I glimpsed panoramic views over the neatly cut hedges. Here and there, old ladies in beige smocks were sitting in the sunshine, knitting, chatting together or muttering harmlessly to themselves. At one point, Sister Belinda paused to look about her, then led me down a sloping lawn through a white gate into a little walled garden.
The only figure to be seen here was an elderly lady sitting in the sun on the far side of the thinning grass, playing cards at a wrought-iron table. She was absorbed in her game and did not look up as we approached. Sister Belinda touched her shoulder gently and said:
“Diana. Here’s a gentleman come to visit you. He’s from England.”
My mother smiled up at us both, then returned to her playing cards.
“Diana doesn’t always understand what’s said to her,” Sister Belinda said. “If you need her to do something, you just have to keep repeating it over and over.”
“I wonder if I may speak with her alone.”
Sister Belinda was not keen on this idea and for a moment seemed to be trying to think of a reason why this was not possible. But in the end, she said: “If you’d prefer it, Mr. Banks, I’m sure that’s all right. I shall be in the dayroom.”
Once Sister Belinda had gone, I looked carefully at my mother as she dealt out her cards. She was much smaller than I had expected and her shoulders had a severe hunch. Her hair was silver and had been tied tightly in a bun. Occasionally, as I continued to watch her, she would glance up and smile, but I could see a trace of fear that had not been there in Sister Belinda’s presence. Her face was not so greatly lined, but there were two thick folds beneath her eyes that were so deep they looked almost like incisions. Her neck, perhaps owing to some injury or condition, had receded deep into her body so that when she gazed from side to side at her cards, she was obliged also to move her shoulders. There was a droplet clinging to the tip of her nose, and I had taken out my handkerchief to remove it before realising that by doing so I might unduly alarm her. Finally I said quietly:
“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you any sort of warning. I realise this might be something of a shock for you.” I stopped, since it was clear she was not listening. Then I said: “Mother, it’s me. Christopher.”
She looked up, smiled much as before, then turned back to her cards. I had assumed she was playing solitaire, but as I watched, saw she was following some odd system of her own. At one point the breeze lifted a few cards off the table, but she appeared not to care. When I collected the cards from the grass and brought them back to her, she smiled, saying:
“Thank you so much. But there’s no need to do that, you know. Myself, I like to leave it until many more cards have accumulated on the lawn. Only then do I go to gather them, all in one go, you see. After all, they can’t fly away off the hill altogether, can they?”
For the next few moments I continued to watch her. Then my mother began to sing. She sang quietly to herself, almost under her breath, as her hands went on picking up and placing down the cards. The voice was faint—I could not make out the song she was singing—but it was effortlessly melodious. And as I went on watching and listening, a fragment of memory came back to me: of a windy summer’s day in our garden, my mother on the swing, laughing and singing at the top of her voice, and me jumping up and down before her, telling her to stop.
I reached forward and gently touched her hand. Instantly she pulled it away and stared at me furiously.
“Keep your hands to yourself, sir!” she said in a shocked whisper. “Keep them right to yourself!”
“I’m sorry.” I moved back a little to reassure her. She returned to her cards and when she next glanced up, she gave a smile as though nothing had happened.
“Mother,” I said slowly, “it’s me. I’ve come from England. I’m really very sorry it’s taken so long. I realise I’ve let you down badly. Very badly. I tried my utmost, but you see, in the end, it proved beyond me. I realise this is hopelessly late.”
I must have started to cry, because my mother looked up and stared at me. Then she said:
“Do you have toothache, my man? If so, you’d better talk to Sister Agnes.”
“No, I’m fine. But I wonder if you’ve understood what I’m saying? It’s me. Christopher.”
She nodded and said: “No use delaying it, my man. Sister Agnes will fill in your form.”
Then an idea came to me. “Mother,” I said, “it’s Puffin. Puffin.”
“Puffin.” She suddenly became very still. “Puffin.”
For a long time my mother said nothing, but the expression on her face had now changed entirely. She was looking up again, but her eyes were focused on something over my shoulder, and a gentle smile was creasing her face.
“Puffin,” she repeated quietly to herself, and for a moment seemed lost in happiness. Then she shook her head and said: “That boy. He’s such a worry to me.”
“Excuse me,” I said. “Excuse me. Supposing this boy of yours, this Puffin. Supposing you discovered he’d tried his best, tried with everything he had to find you, even if in the end he couldn’t. If you knew that, do you suppose . . . do you suppose you’d be able to forgive him?”
My mother continued to gaze past my shoulder, but now a puzzled look came into her face.
“Forgive Puffin? Did you say forgive Puffin? Whatever for?” Then she beamed again happily. “That boy. They say he’s doing well. But you can never be sure with that one. Oh, he’s such a worry to me. You’ve no idea.”
“IT MIGHT SEEM FOOLISH TO YOU,” I said to Jennifer when we were discussing the trip again last month, “but it was only when she said that, it was only then I realised. What I mean is, I realised she’d never ceased to love me, not through any of it. All she’d ever wanted was for me to have a good life. And all the rest of it, all my trying to find her, trying to save the world from ruin, that wouldn’t have made any difference either way. Her feelings for me, they were always just there, they didn’t depend on anything. I suppose that might not seem so very surprising. But it took me all that time to realise it.”
“Do you really suppose,” Jennifer asked, “she had no inkling at all who you were?”
“I’m sure she didn’t. But she meant what she said, and she knew what she was saying. She said there was nothing to forgive, and she was genuinely puzzled at the suggestion there might be. If you’d seen her face, when I first said that name, you’d have no doubt about it either. She’d never ceased to love me, not for a single moment.”
“Uncle Christopher, why do you suppose you never told the nuns who you really were?”
“I’m not sure. It seems odd, I know, but in the end I just didn’t. Besides, I saw no reason to take her away from there. She did seem, somehow, contented. Not happy exactly. But as though the pain had passed. She’d have been no better off in a home in England. I suppose it was much like this question of where she should lie. After she died, I thought about having her reburied here. But there again, when I thought it over, I decided against it. She’d lived all her life in the East. I think she’d prefer to rest out there.”
It was a frosty October morning, and Jennifer and I were walking down a winding lane in Gloucestershire. I had stayed the night at an inn not far from the boarding house where she is currently living, and I had called on her shortly after breakfast. Perhaps I did not conceal well enough my sadness on seeing the shabbiness of her latest lodgings, for she had quickly insisted, despite the chill, on showing me the view from a nearby churchyard over the Wind rush valley. As we came further down the lane, I could see at the bottom the gates of a farm; but before we reached them, she led me off the path through a gap in the hedge.
“Uncle Christopher, come and look.”
We picked our way through a thick patch of nettles until we were standing by some
railings. I could then see the fields sweeping down the valley side.
“It’s a wonderful view,” I said.
“From the churchyard, you can see even further. Don’t you ever think of moving out here too? London’s much too crowded now.”
“It’s not like it used to be, that’s true.”
We stood there for a moment, side by side, gazing down at the view.
“I’m sorry,” I said to her, “I’ve not been up here much recently. I suppose it’s been a good few months now. Can’t think what I’ve been up to.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t worry so much about me.”
“But I do worry. Of course, I worry.”
“It’s all behind me now,” she said, “all of that last year. I won’t try anything foolish like that ever again. I’ve already promised you that. It was just an especially bad time, that’s all. Besides, I never really meant to do it. I made sure that window was left open.”
“But you’re still a young woman, Jenny. With so much ahead of you. It depresses me that you should even have contemplated such a thing.”
“A young woman? Thirty-one, no children, no marriage. I suppose there is time still. But I’ll have to find the will, you know, to go through all of that again. I’m so tired now, I sometimes think I’ll gladly settle for a quiet life on my own. I could work in a shop somewhere, go to the cinema once a week and not do anyone any harm. Nothing wrong with a life like that.”
“But you won’t settle for that. Doesn’t sound like the Jennifer I know.”
She gave a small laugh. “But you’ve no idea what it’s like. A woman of my age, trying to find romance in a place like this. Landladies and lodgers whispering about you every time you step outside your room. What am I actually supposed to do? Advertise? Now that would set them all talking, not that I care at all about them.”
“But you’re a very attractive woman, Jenny. What I mean is, when people look at you, they can see your spirit, your kindness, your gentleness. I’m sure something will happen for you.”
“You think people see my spirit? Uncle Christopher, that’s only because you look at me and still see the little girl you once knew.”
I turned and looked carefully at her. “Oh, but it’s still there,” I said. “I can see it. It’s still there, underneath, waiting. The world hasn’t changed you as much as you think, my dear. It just gave you something of a shock, that’s all. And by the way, there are a few decent men in this world, I’ll have you know. You just have to stop doing your utmost to avoid them.”
“All right, Uncle Christopher. I’ll try and do better next time. If there is a next time.”
For a moment we went on gazing at the view, a light wind blowing across our faces. Eventually I said:
“I should have done more for you, Jenny. I’m sorry.”
“But what could you have done? If I take it into my silly head to . . .”
“No, I meant . . . I meant earlier on. When you were growing up. I should have been there with you more. But I was too busy, trying to solve the world’s problems. I should have done a lot more for you than I did. I’m sorry. There. Always meant to say it.”
“How can you apologise, Uncle Christopher? Where would I be now without you? I was an orphan, with no one. You mustn’t ever apologise. I owe you everything.”
I reached forward and touched the wet cobweb suspended across the railings. It broke and dangled from my fingers.
“Oh, I hate that feeling!” she exclaimed. “Can’t bear it!”
“I’ve always rather liked it. When I was a boy, I used to take off my gloves just to do it.”
“Oh, how could you?” She laughed loudly, and I could see suddenly the Jennifer of old. “And what about you, Uncle Christopher? How about you getting married? Don’t you ever think about it?”
“Definitely too late for that.”
“Oh, I don’t know. You manage well enough living on your own. But it doesn’t suit you much either. Not really. It makes you morose. You should think about it. You’re always mentioning your lady-friends. Won’t one of them have you?”
“They’ll have me for lunch. But not for much more, I fear.” Then I added: “There was someone once. Back then. But that went the way of everything else.” I gave a quick laugh. “My great vocation got in the way of quite a lot, all in all.”
I must have turned away from her. I felt her touch my shoulder, and when I looked around, she was peering gently into my face.
“You shouldn’t always talk so bitterly about your career, Uncle Christopher. I’ve always so admired you for what you tried to do.”
“Tried is right. It all amounted to very little in the end. Anyway, that’s all behind me now. My major ambition in life these days is to keep this rheumatism at bay.”
Jennifer suddenly smiled and slipped her arm through mine. “I know what we’ll do,” she said. “I have a plan. I’ve decided. I’ll find a fine decent man whom I’ll marry, and I’ll have three, no, four children. And we’ll live somewhere near here, where we can always come and look over this valley. And you can leave your stuffy little flat in London and come and live with us. Since your lady-friends won’t have you, you can accept the post of uncle to all my future children.”
I smiled back at her. “That sounds a fine plan. Though I don’t know if your husband would so appreciate having me around his house the whole time.”
“Oh, then we’ll rig up an old shed or something for you.”
“Now, that does sound tempting. Keep your end of the bargain and I’ll think about it.”
“If that’s a promise, then you’d better watch out. Because I’ll make sure it happens. Then you’ll have to come and live in your shed.”
OVER THIS LAST MONTH, as I have drifted through these grey days in London, wandering about Kensington Gardens in the company of autumn tourists and office workers out for their lunch breaks, occasionally running into an old acquaintance and perhaps going off with him for lunch or tea, I have often found myself thinking again of my conversation with Jennifer that morning. There is no denying it has cheered me. There is every reason to believe that she has now come through the dark tunnel of her life and emerged at the other end. What awaits her there remains to be seen, but she is not by nature someone who easily accepts defeat. Indeed, it is more than possible she will go on to fulfil the programme she outlined to me—only half-jokingly—as we looked out over the valley that morning. And if in a few years’ time things have indeed gone according to her wishes, then it is not out of the question I will take up her suggestion to go and live with her in the country. Of course, I would not much fancy her shed, but I could always take a cottage not far away. I am grateful for Jennifer. We understand each other’s concerns instinctively, and it is exchanges like the one that frosty morning which have proved such a source of consolation for me over the years.
But then again, life in the countryside might prove too quiet, and I have become rather attached to London of late. Besides, from time to time, I am still approached by persons who remember my name from before the war and wish my advice on some matter. Only last week, in fact, when I went to dinner with the Osbournes, I was introduced to a lady who immediately seized my hand, exclaiming: “You mean you’re the Christopher Banks? The detective?”
It turned out she had spent much of her life in Singapore, where she had been “a very great friend” of Sarah’s. “She used to talk of you all the time,” she told me. “I really do feel I know you already.”
The Osbournes had invited several other people, but once we sat down to eat, I found myself placed beside this same lady, and inevitably our conversation drifted back to Sarah.
“You were a good friend of hers, were you not?” she asked at one point. “She always talked so admiringly of you.”
“We were good friends, certainly. Of course, we rather lost touch once she went out to the East.”
“She often talked of you. She had so many stories about the famous detective, kept us quite amu
sed when we grew tired of playing bridge. She always spoke most highly of you.”
“I’m moved to think she remembered me so well. As I say, we rather lost touch, though I did receive a letter from her once, around two years after the war. I wasn’t aware until then how she’d spent the war. She made light of the internment, but I’m sure it was no joke.”
“Oh, I’m sure it was no joke at all. My husband and I, we could so easily have suffered the same fate. We managed to get ourselves to Australia just in time. But Sarah and M. de Villefort, they always trusted so much to fate. They were the sort of couple who went out in the evening with no plan, quite happy to see who they bumped into. A charming attitude most of the time, but not when the Japanese are on your doorstep. Did you know him also?”
“I never had the pleasure of meeting the count. I understand he returned to Europe after Sarah’s death, but our paths have never crossed.”
“Oh, I thought from the way she talked of you, you were good friends with them both.”
“No. You see, I really only knew Sarah during an earlier part of her life. I beg your pardon, there’s perhaps no way for you to answer this. But did they strike you as a happy couple, Sarah and this French chap?”
“A happy couple?” My companion thought for a moment. “Of course, one can never know for sure, but quite honestly, it would be hard to believe otherwise. They did seem utterly devoted to one another. They never had much money, so that meant they could never be quite as carefree as they might have wished. But the count always seemed so, well, so romantic. You laugh, Mr. Banks, but that’s just the word for it. He was so devastated by her death. It was the internment that did it, you know. Like so many others, she never fully recovered her health. I do miss her. Such a charming companion.”
Since this encounter last week, I have brought out and read again several times Sarah’s letter—the only one I ever received since our parting in Shanghai all those years ago. It is dated 18th May 1947, and has been written from a hill station in Malaya. Perhaps it was my hope that after my conversation with her friend, I would discover in those rather formal, almost blandly pleasant lines, some hitherto hidden dimension. But in fact the letter continues to yield up little more than the bare bones of her life since her departure from Shanghai. She talks of Macao, Hong Kong, Singapore as being “delightful,” “colourful,” “fascinating.” Her French companion is mentioned several times, but always in passing as though I already knew all there was to know about him. There is a breezy mention of the internment under the Japanese, and she pronounces her health problems “a bit of a bore.” She asks after me in a polite way and calls her own life in liberated Singapore “a pretty decent thing to be getting on with.” It is the sort of letter one might write, in a foreign land, on an impulse one afternoon to a vaguely remembered friend. Only once, towards the end, does its tone imply the intimacy we once shared.