Prisoner from Penang

1. Singapore-5

That evening when I got back to the hotel, I found Veronica Leighton waiting for me in the lobby. She was sipping a gin sling and idly flipping through the pages of a magazine. My heart lurched. She must have heard news.

Veronica looked up and saw me, throwing the magazine aside and patting the sofa beside her. ‘How did you get on at the hospital?’ she asked.

‘Fine,’ I said, not wanting to engage in small talk with a woman I still loathed. Then, relenting – she had after all found me a hotel room and work – I added, ‘All they had me do was write letters home for servicemen who are unable to write themselves. Not as important as driving an ambulance I suppose, or nursing those poor chaps.’

Veronica ignored the intended barb and said, ‘An ambulance is no more difficult to drive than a car.’ Her lips tightened. ‘I have bad news for you I’m afraid, Mary.’

I nodded, knowing what was coming and willing myself not to break down in front of Veronica. If I’d managed to control my tears until now, I could manage a little longer.

‘Flight Lieutenant Francis James Hyde-Underwood was shot down over the Strait of Malacca on the morning of December the 9th. I understand they got his fuel tanks and the plane exploded. He would have died instantly. I’m frightfully sorry, darling.’ She touched my arm with her hand, but I brushed it away.

‘Thank you. I appreciate you finding out for me. I knew he was dead, but I had to be sure.’ I got up.

‘Those boys were incredibly brave, but they never stood a chance. The airfield at Butterworth was completely wiped out. And we all know those aeroplanes hadn’t a hope against the Japanese ones. Too slow to climb. No speed to get out of trouble. It’s a bloody disgrace. Apparently, there are some Hurricanes on the way. Too bloody late now. If it’s any consolation, my contact told me your chap gave it all he had. Seems to have been a popular fellow.’

I didn’t want to listen to Veronica’s eulogy for the man I loved. Not after the way she’d tried to flirt with him under my nose. I was glad she’d taken the trouble to find out for me, but it wouldn’t stop me hating her with a passion that surprised even myself.

‘Any news of your father?’ she asked, giving the impression she was actually interested but, knowing Veronica, it was more likely that she wanted to move away from the topic of Frank.

‘No. And I’ve no idea how he’s going to find us. He’s driving down in Reggie Hyde-Underwood’s car but there’s been no word. I imagine the roads are frightfully clogged up.’

‘The most likely place to find out is Robinson’s. Everyone’s going there to find each other. If he’s not there it’ll be Raffles or the Swimming Club.’

Veronica was referring to Singapore’s department store, Robinson’s, whose restaurant and tearoom had always been a must on the itinerary of any visitor to the city. The place had taken a hit from a Japanese bomb less than two weeks earlier on December 8th but, according to Veronica, had opened its doors for business as usual the following day.

‘Your best bet,’ she said, cheerily, ‘is to let the manager in each of those places know where you’re staying, but I’d also stop by Robinson’s in person every day to make sure.’

‘I can’t understand why he isn’t here yet.’ I was dreading telling Mum that there was still no word.

Veronica waved a hand airily. ‘I suppose it depends on whether they have to keep taking cover to avoid Japanese bombers. Not to mention roadblocks and traffic. Don’t forget the army will be clogging up the roads too. I don’t think you can expect to see him for several days.’

She got up, straightened her skirt and gave me a bright smile. ‘Chin up, Mary.’

Then she was gone, her signature Shalimar scent lingering behind her.

Free at last to cry about losing Frank, I couldn’t do it. I didn’t even shed any tears when I got to the bedroom. I didn’t want to do that in front of Mum when her own nerves were so fragile. Telling her that Dad might not be here for a while brought on another weeping fit from her. It was up to me to keep calm and stay strong. I needed to be cheerful and try to sustain her spirits.

But later, once Mum was asleep, I lay in the blackout-darkened bedroom and prayed that Frank’s death hadn’t been prolonged or painful. I thought of him, trapped in a burning cockpit, plunging through thick smoke towards the sea. How long would it have taken for him to die? Would he have known he’d ‘copped it’ as he used to say? That he was ‘gone for a Burton’ – the odd English expression he and the other pilots used so often when a colleague was shot down?

People say your whole life flashes before your eyes in the moment of dying. I was such a tiny portion of Frank’s life, timewise, yet I hope a very large part in importance to him. He had been everything to me, so I hope it had been true for him too.

That night, I finally wept silent tears until the pillow was soaked under my head and, all cried out, I fell into a dreamless sleep.