The journey home passed in a daze. After explaining to Jasmine that yes, it had indeed been Uncle Arthur, but he’d had to rush off for a meeting, she gathered their things together and ushered the children out of the restaurant.

On the train, Evie left Jasmine to respond to Hugh’s chatter, and stared unseeing through the grimy train window, remembering that other train taking them through the Malayan night, away from Arthur and into an unknown future. She remembered the way he had held her on that station platform five years ago, when he’d promised they would one day be together. The feel of his lips as they brushed lightly against hers, amid the chaos of the platform at Butterworth. The way his eyes had looked into hers as though he were looking into her soul. Yet, the same man, the man she loved beyond reason, had stood in front of her, unsmiling, avoiding her eyes, before leaving her without even so much as a touch of his hand.

32

Not for the first time, Evie had cause to be grateful for the kindness and perception of her daughter. Jasmine sensed that all was not well with her mother. When they arrived home, Jasmine offered to cook the supper. When Evie sat listlessly at the table without eating, Jasmine saw Hugh to bed, telling Evie she herself would be having an early night and suggested Evie do the same.

The last thing Evie wanted was to go to bed. It would be a sleepless night. Better to delay the inevitable. She poured herself a rare gin and sat down to think through what had happened that afternoon.

Arthur had treated her like a stranger. How was it possible? Evie began to doubt everything. Had he been playing a game with her all along? But that was inconceivable. She knew as clearly as she knew her own mind, that there had been no dissembling in Arthur’s declarations of love.

She asked herself if Veronica’s presence had enabled him to love Evie at a protected distance and now that Veronica was dead, he was no longer interested, wanting only what he couldn’t have?

None of it made any sense. Over and over and round and round she went, trying to imagine what had wrought such a change in Arthur.

She remembered how Mary had been. How she had said she’d feel awkward and out of place in Britain. Perhaps that was more a result of what had happened to her at the hands of the Japanese than a case of her not knowing England. Was it his wartime experiences that had made Arthur so closed and cold towards her?

She got up and poured herself another drink. She rarely drank at all these days and never alone, but she needed something to blot out all these confused feelings and the loss and grief that had hit her like a train. For it was indeed grief. She was mourning the loss of a dream. Of a man that perhaps no longer existed or maybe had only existed inside her head.