Always in my Heart (Beach View Boarding House 5) Read online




  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Ellie Dean

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Copyright

  About the Book

  As the Japanese begin their assault on Singapore, Sarah Fuller is forced to leave her parents and fiancé, Philip, behind. The long journey to England is fraught with danger, and Sarah and her sister Jane don’t even know if their great-aunt is alive, let alone waiting for them.

  They arrive in Cliffehaven, on the south coast of England, and here Sarah must find work to support them both. When the Women’s Timber Corps takes over the local estate, Sarah enlists as a lumberjill.

  But as time goes on and the news of events in Singapore worsen, Sarah fears she will never see Philip and her parents again...

  About the Author

  Always in my Heart is Ellie Dean’s fifth novel. She lives in Eastbourne, which has been her home for many years and where she raised her three children.

  Also by Ellie Dean

  There’ll be Blue Skies

  Far From Home

  Keep Smiling Through

  Where the Heart Lies

  Acknowledgements

  This book could not have been written without the help of Molly Paterson, who so very kindly shared her memories with me of her time in the Women’s Timber Corps. Thank you, Molly, for the little details which added authenticity to the work of my character Sarah, and I hope you spot your name in the book!

  Having spent time in Singapore, Malaya, Thailand and Sri Lanka, I know how humid it gets – and because I was born in Australia and came to live in England as a schoolgirl, I have vivid memories of how difficult it is to settle into a new way of life in a very different country. I have used my own experiences in this book, but thanks must also go to those lovely people whose memories of living in the Far East at that time were extremely helpful, and who gave me vivid descriptions of life on board the refugee ships that made those hazardous journeys to safety.

  To J. Warner, I appreciate the time you took to explain the workings of the Auxiliary Units of the British Resistance Organisation, and to P. Nash, thank you for all the long e-mails regarding tip-and-runs, airfields and RAF history. Thanks too to Kath Cater, mother-in-law extraordinaire, for telling me about your milk deliveries during the war.

  Again I must thank my brilliant agent, Teresa Chris, for her continued encouragement and support, and Georgina Hawtrey-Woore for her enthusiasm and advice – and of course my husband for taking over the running of the house and the evening meals. Without any of them I would be lost.

  Chapter One

  Malaya, December 1941

  Despite the isolation of the rubber plantation, and the simplicity of the large, tin-roofed wooden bungalow that jutted from the hillside on stilts above the canopy of trees, the Fuller family always dressed for dinner, even when dining alone.

  But tonight they had a guest – a very special guest – and nineteen-year-old Sarah Fuller had taken extra care with her appearance. Instead of the usual cotton blouse, skirt, and sensible shoes Philip Tarrant saw her in every day at her father’s plantation office, she had changed into a shantung silk dress that skimmed her slender figure and was the colour of rich cream; her clear complexion was enhanced by the string of pearls around her neck, and she’d pinned a frangipani flower into her freshly washed fair hair.

  Philip was twenty-four and looked very handsome in his white shirt and tuxedo. As their eyes frequently met over the candlelit table, they shared moments of silent intimacy which brought a flush to Sarah’s cheeks that had little to do with the humidity and heat of the tropical night.

  Tall and darkly attractive, Philip was the son of the wealthy plantation owner. He’d left Malaya as a schoolboy and had returned eighteen months ago, moving into his family’s magnificent white colonial house that stood hidden amid the trees further up the hill, so he could take over the reins of the plantation from his widowed, ailing father who had relocated upcountry into the much cooler Cameron Highlands.

  Philip was considered to be a great catch among the ambitious, social-climbing matrons of the Malaysian peninsula who had daughters to marry off, but it appeared he only had eyes for Sarah – and she still found that fact rather miraculous.

  After all, she was only the plantation manager’s daughter, an ordinary secretary who, unlike most of her peers, had never left Malaya because her father didn’t approve of English boarding schools and long family separations. In the echelons of what passed as high society amongst the white expats here in Malaya, she was regarded with a certain reserve that had hardened somewhat since Philip had shown interest in her.

  Sarah tore her gaze away from him and tried to concentrate on the delicious food their Chinese cook, Wa Ling, had spent most of the day preparing. She fully understood the infinitesimal layers of the social hierarchy that ruled this colonial outpost – and knew without a doubt that if this delicate relationship with Philip should founder, there would be a degree of smugness amongst those who’d openly sneered that such a match couldn’t last.

  But for now she was happy to bask in the love that shone from his eyes whenever he looked at her, warmed by the sound of his voice and his nearness as they worked together in the estate office, bent over maps of the vast plantation and discussing the shipping contracts and warehouse capacities, along with her father, who had managed the business almost single-handedly for many years.

  She set aside these warm thoughts and listened for a moment to the idle chatter that was going round the table. Her mother, Sybil, wasn’t as animated as usual, and although her advanced condition was masked by a voluminous chiffon dress, Sarah knew she was finding it uncomfortable to be so pregnant in this heat. But Sybil Fuller was not a woman to be beaten by such things, and she still looked serene and beautiful, her pale hair and delicate features enhanced by the candles’ glow as she kept a watchful eye on Jane, her youngest daughter.

  Sarah felt the usual pang of sorrow when she looked at her sister. Jane was seventeen, and quite beautiful when she wasn’t in one of her funny moods. Sometimes it was difficult for those not in the know to realise that Jane was different to other girls her age, but since the riding accident four years ago in which she’d suffered a devastating head injury, the doctor had said she would forever be a child of twelve. Yet there remained vestiges of the young woman she might have become in her astonishing ability to solve mathematical problems that were far beyond Sarah’s capability – and in this talent lay the spark of hope that she might one day fulfil at least part of her true potential. Jane’s tragic accident had cast a shadow over them all, but, with love and determination, the family had seen to it that she continued with her schooling and remained an intrinsic part of their hectic lives – regardless of what other, less charitable people might say.

  Sarah
noted that Philip was listening with rapt attention as Jane explained how she’d finally managed to solve a mathematical conundrum that had eluded her for several days. Realising he was fully occupied, she turned her gaze to her father.

  Jock Fuller was an imposing figure in his dinner jacket and bow tie, but Sarah knew he felt much more at home in his daily attire of baggy shorts or old jodhpurs and faded shirt, the brim of his battered, sweat-stained hat pulled low as he strode through the trees on his regular inspections of the tappers and coolies.

  Jock was stocky and broad-shouldered, with a head of thick hair that was yet to turn silver and a dashing handlebar moustache that almost hid his wide, well-defined lips. At forty-five his eyes were still a bright blue which, in moments of displeasure or anger, could turn steely. His face was weathered from many years in the sun, but for a patch of pale flesh high on his brow where his hat brim always rested, and his big square hand looked incongruous as it held the delicate crystal glass to his lips, the gold cygnet ring winking in the flickering light. But Sarah knew that hand could be gentle, that the tough, no-nonsense exterior hid a loving heart and a strong sense of fair play.

  She let the various conversations drift about her as she regarded, with pleasure, the large square room she’d known all her life. The long dining table was at the centre of the room and could seat twenty when all the leaves had been added. The wooden walls were mostly bare, but for a large framed print of the King and Queen which had pride of place above the highly polished teak chiffonier that housed the family crystal and best silver. Two huge Chinese jars stood sentry on either side of the door into the drawing room, and a large potted fern had been placed to hide a particularly stubborn patch of damp in one corner. Damp and mould were the enemy in this tropical paradise, and nothing could escape them.

  Curtains of white voile brushed softly against the hardwood floorboards at the French windows which had been flung open to garner the slightest breeze that might drift in through the screened veranda from the forest canopy. Candlelight flickered in the downdraught of the ceiling fans, and glinted on the silver and crystal that had been so carefully placed by the soft-footed servants on the snowy white linen tablecloth. There were small bowls of colourful flowers down the centre of the table, and the china was delicate and gold-rimmed.

  It was at moments like these that Sarah felt an inner glow of utter contentment. She loved this house, these people around her and the scents and sounds of the country she would always call home. The world beyond the peninsula held no lure for her, for her heart was here – and like her father, she had no intention of ever leaving it.

  Sarah sipped the cool wine as the dirty dishes were replaced with crystal bowls of lychees smothered in a light syrup and soft ice cream. She smiled at her younger sister who was beginning to fidget beside her. ‘Just wait until everyone is served, Jane,’ she murmured.

  Jane slumped back in her chair and pulled a face. ‘It’s boring having dinner with the grown-ups,’ she muttered. ‘I much prefer eating with Amah.’

  Sarah grinned and tweaked the long, fair plait which fell over Jane’s shoulder. ‘I’m sure you do,’ she replied. ‘Amah spoils you. But you’re a big girl now, and it’s important you learn how to conduct yourself at the dinner table.’

  Jane puffed out a long sigh, then glanced at their mother, who was dipping her spoon into the dessert, and followed suit, the ice cream dripping onto her chin in her haste and threatening to mark her pretty white dress.

  Sarah quickly handed her a linen napkin to mop up the spill, and Jane shot her a mischievous grin as if she knew she was behaving badly, and could get away with it.

  The meal was finally over and, whilst the servants quietly cleared the table, Jane wandered off in search of Amah, and the others slowly moved into the drawing room. No one hurried in the tropics, especially during the monsoon season, when the temperature rose along with the humidity, and the rains did nothing to alleviate the stifling heat.

  The drawing room had glass doors leading to the back veranda, which overlooked the forested hills that towered behind the bungalow and kept this part of the house permanently in dark green shadow. It was furnished with deep-cushioned rattan chairs, teak tables and cabinets holding delicate ornaments, and there was a collection of native spears arranged on one wall, and several large, exquisitely carved Malay figures stood among the strategically placed potted ferns. Jock had pinned an enormous map of the world on another wall, beneath which was a long, narrow table he’d since buried beneath layers of papers, magazines and mouldering books. A Christmas tree stood in one corner of the room, festooned with tinsel and glossy baubles, a rather ancient and ragged angel staring woefully down at them from the topmost branch. There were no presents beneath it yet, for it was still very early December.

  As the servants brought in the coffee and handed the cups round, Sarah rather hoped that she and Philip could slip out to the veranda and share a few quiet moments together, but it seemed her father had other ideas, for Jock had settled his sturdy bulk into his favourite rattan chair by the wireless and was urging Philip to sit beside him so they could discuss the war in Europe over brandy and cigars.

  Philip shot her a glance of apology, but there was nothing for it. Jock was clearly delighted to have the younger man’s undivided attention and was soon in full flow, expounding his theories on what should be done to stop Hitler in his tracks. It seemed he was determined to monopolise Philip – and the evening’s conversation.

  Sarah’s disappointment grew as she sipped her coffee and her father droned on and on. She’d heard it all before, and soon he would tune in the wireless for the BBC World Service news, after which he would discuss it minutely long into the night.

  Sybil Fuller was clearly of the same opinion, and she gave an exasperated sigh as she set her coffee cup rather firmly on the low table. ‘Really, Jock,’ she said, ‘I do think we should change the subject. It’s not suitable for after-dinner conversation, and all this talk of war is unsettling and not doing me or the baby any good.’

  Jock regarded her from beneath his dark brows with a mixture of affection and impatience. ‘Unsettling or not, my dear,’ he said gruffly, ‘it is our duty to keep up with the news from home.’

  Sarah smiled at this. Pops always called England ‘home’, but in fact he hadn’t ever stepped on English soil because he’d been born in Scotland and had left for Malaya as a baby in his mother’s arms to rejoin his father. Malaya and rubber were his passion, his life – and he could no more exist in England than one of the exotic birds that inhabited the surrounding jungle.

  Sybil flapped her hand at him. ‘Hitler already has most of Europe in his greedy grasp. What’s to stop him from using the Japs to—?’

  ‘We are in a privileged position here,’ interrupted Jock as he settled further into the cushions, stretched out his long legs and puffed on his cigar. ‘The Japanese might have signed allegiance with Hitler back in nineteen-forty, but so far the war is confined to Europe – and I believe it will remain so.’

  ‘Then why are we building air-raid shelters everywhere?’ retorted Sybil, who seemed determined to pick an argument.

  ‘Merely precautionary devices to deter scaremongering,’ he said with a sniff. ‘Air raids on Malaya by Japan are out of the question. Their nearest base is over six hundred miles away in Indochina, and they don’t possess the necessary long-range aircraft. If they should dare to attack by sea, they will be picked up by our first-class radar system and met by the barrage of big guns we have all along the coast. Impenetrable jungle and mangrove swamps effectively cut us off from inland incursion, and the British Forces will defend us to the hilt. Singapore and Malaya are impregnable fortresses designed to protect Britain’s possessions in the Far East – and our rubber is vital to the war effort.’

  ‘I still don’t like it,’ murmured Sybil.

  Jock nodded to the silent houseboy who’d been sitting on a rush mat by the door, and waited while he replenished the brandy glass
es. ‘You have no need to worry, my dear,’ he said comfortably as he swirled the brandy. ‘Neither that scrawny house painter, Hitler, nor the yellow-bellied Japs would dare bring trouble to these shores. They know well enough what we British are made of and we’d soon send them kicking and screaming back to where they came from.’

  Seeming to lose her appetite for debate, Sybil gave a deep sigh, rolled her eyes and said no more, but Sarah knew what was really bothering her mother, and it had very little to do with air-raid shelters and the war.

  Sybil was forty-two and had been quite put out by her surprise pregnancy, and although she’d come to terms with her condition, and was now looking forward to the birth, she wasn’t coping with the heat and humidity very well at all. She was a loving, sweet mother, but at heart, she was a born socialite – spoiled and pampered by Jock, adored by her daughters and much admired by their friends for her beauty and wit, and her ability to light up any room she entered. Used to robust health and a full social calendar, she was finding this lack of energy trying, and her enforced confinement to the isolation of the plantation was making her edgy.

  Born into the wealth and privilege of a well-connected family of Australian sugar exporters and refiners, she’d come to Malaya with her parents when she was twenty for a holiday. She’d met Jock at a party and had married him against her parents’ wishes the day after she turned twenty-one and came into her late grandmother’s money. Jock had only been an apprentice manager of this rubber plantation then, and not the rich, ambitious tea planter or ship owner they’d been hoping for for their daughter. Sarah knew she still loved him – that their marriage was strong and passionate – but she also understood that her mother needed to escape the strictures of family and duty now and then for the bright lights of Singapore.

  Unlike Jock, who preferred the tranquillity and order of the plantation, Sybil loved Singapore and all it had to offer. Before her pregnancy, she would often get their driver to take her and Jane down to the bungalow they owned close to Raffles Place so she could entertain, and be entertained by, her many friends – to take tiffin at Raffles, and attend tennis parties, cricket matches and picnics before dancing the night away at the popular Singapore Club. But it had been several months since Jock had put his foot down and forbidden her to travel, and Sybil was growing restless.