In early January, Dad finally turned up. Reggie Hyde-Underwood’s motorcar had got a flat tyre, which caused a significant delay, as the spare was missing, probably stolen. It struck me as deeply ironic that their progress was halted for the absence of a rubber tyre, when Reggie was a rubber planter and all around were acres of rubber trees and abandoned latex processing factories.
As Veronica had predicted, Reggie had discovered our whereabouts via Robinson’s and dropped Dad off at our hotel.
Until I saw my father standing there in the hotel lobby in front of me, I hadn’t realised how worried I’d been about his absence. I’d been so busy putting a brave face on for Mum that I hadn’t allowed my own concerns for him to surface. I flung my arms around him and hugged him tight in relief.
Beh
