The Red Pavilion by Jean Chapman Page B

particular sign of activity. It might make a difference to how we arrange the lights.’
    Blanche knew she should feel more involved in all this, be vitally interested. She was more aware of the leather photograph folder she held and how comforted she felt to have this other Englishman by her side.
    ‘My men,’ he was saying if he had already asked her a question and was now repeating it, ‘I would prefer them all to sleep here until the job’s done, if you don’t mind. They’d sleep on the verandah, just the four of them, and take turns on watch. I must go back to Bukit Kinta each evening, particularly while they’re all so jumpy.’
    ‘We should have heard by now if my husband was safe,’ she stated, opening the folder and displaying the central photograph of Neville, posed in a formal portrait, flanked by family photographs of herself and the two girls, and the four of them in a sailing dinghy.
    He took the folder and, as the two of them looked down at the English scenes and English faces, she added, ‘No one can be missing or held up this long. He’s either been captured and held for God knows what purpose — or he’s dead.’
    He gently took hold of her forearm. ‘People do disappear. The most extraordinary things do happen.’
    ‘Not that often.’ She stared down at his hand and thought it was a long time since a man had made her feel that supported. Then, as if he took the protracted gaze for criticism, he released her. She told herself she was glad, too much kindness sapped her resolve. She had long ago realised she needed to maintain her aggressive veneer to face the world.
    ‘No, but we must hope.’ He indicated Liz in the photographs. ‘Your elder daughter is like her father.’
    ‘In many ways,’ Blanche agreed. ‘Wendy is more like me. I hope so, anyway, we need some practical people in this family.’
    ‘This Josef — Liz seems to have faith in him?’
    Blanche took the album and closed it as the clatter of the drivers putting up the tailgates of the lorries diverted them. One of the drivers called something in Malay and George indicated his permission for them to go back to the mine, leaving only the wired-in jeep.
    ‘Josef,’ Blanche repeated, her voice starting low and sinking lower. ‘An example of how much like her father she is — much too eager to think well of the wrong people. Sometimes I think because Neville is in large part saint-like he expects everyone else to be the same.’
    ‘Life must be a great disappointment to him then.’ George took a retractable tape measure from his pocket and tossed it in his hand as if weighing its worth before beginning to use it.
    She laughed briefly and admitted, ‘Often true.’
    ‘If you have to be on your own ... ’ George gently posed the possibility.
    ‘God forbid,’ Blanche breathed and held the leather folder close to her breast, crossing her arms over it. ‘I’ve had my war alone. I only came to Malaya to be with Neville … ’
    ‘That’s right, m’dear. God forbid. Meantime we take precautions against the troubles we know you’re likely to have. So what about this Josef? Where is he?’
    ‘We did ask him to contact as many tappers as he could. I presume that’s where he is.’
    ‘Hmm! There’s a lot here that doesn’t add up,’ he mumbled, then lifted his head, listening as the sound of more traffic coming towards them was heard.
    A few seconds later an army lorry towing a trailer and a cloud of dust came into view. As it pulled up alongside them, the air was replete with the smell of hot metal and evaporating petrol.
    ‘The generator! As good as his word,’ George said with satisfaction as he went forward to greet the corporal who sprang down from the driving seat. From the passenger’s side a taller, younger man climbed down. ‘Corporal,’ he greeted the driver.
    ‘Morning, sir. Mr Harfield? One genny and one guard stroke radio operator for Rinsey. One on permanent loan’ — he nodded towards the