A couple of hours later, Annabel found herself on the other side of the island, engrossed in the information boards in the Changi Museum. As an historian, she found the exhibits fascinating, but as the granddaughter of a former internee, they were especially poignant. There were artefacts, diaries, photographs and paintings, all of which documented the daily lives of the prisoners and the horrors they had faced. Entering the recreated jail cell and listening to recordings of the internees sent a shiver down Annabel’s spine. She imagined what life must have been like in these cramped confines and this brief glimpse was more than enough for her; how had her grandmother endured it for three and a half years?
What shone through most in the museum, however, was the immense fortitude and tenacity of the human spirit. The internees had gone through hell, yet they had not given up. Time after time, day after day, they had rallied themselves and supported each other in order to survive. Annabel smiled as she read about the clubs and societies that had been organised in the camp and gasped in wonder when she saw the Changi Quilts.
The quilts had been the idea of one Mrs Mulvany in 1942, Annabel read, and were intended for the wounded in Changi Hospital. Their real purpose, however, was to keep the women busy with a sense of purpose and to boost morale. The women were asked to put something of themselves into their square of embroidery and their combined patchwork piece was a poignant collection of these remarkable individuals. Annabel spotted a map of Australia, a love heart, a four-leaf clover and a patriotic British flag.
In one of the museum rooms there was a computer with records of the prisoners who had been kept at Changi. Her pulse quickened as she typed ‘Dorothy Llewellyn’ into the searchbox. The computer thought about it for a few moments, then loaded a page showing all her grandmother’s details. Annabel gasped. Right before her were Dotty’s – or rather, Dorothy’s – nationality, year of birth, profession and cell room number. The last field, year of death, was left blank. Annabel’s eyes teared up as she realised that this needed to be updated. She should probably inform someone of her grandmother’s passing. It was suddenly all so official, so real.
After visiting the museum, Annabel made her way through to the chapel. It was in the open air, with prison-high white walls but no roof. Only the altar was undercover, with a simple A-frame roof structure made of wood. She read that this was a 1988 replica of the original chapel, which had been made from any salvageable materials that the prisoners could get their hands on.
Annabel sat on the last bench, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She found herself drifting back in time and imagining her grandmother. A devout Christian, Dotty was bound to have knelt here, praying for her family and for an end to her internment. As a child, Annabel had especially loved visiting Dotty at Christmastime and singing carols together in the local church. ‘Silent Night’ had been her granny’s favourite, she remembered now. Had she sung it here? For a moment, Annabel had the strangest sensation of her grandmother’s reassuring presence beside her and it made her smile.
Before she left, Annabel spoke to the receptionist and got the contact details of the museum curator. The receptionist was interested to hear about Dotty’s story and Annabel promised that she would be in touch soon. As an historian, she knew only too well the importance of sharing individual stories.
Annabel was sipping a cold glass of iced lemon tea in the café beside the museum when her phone started vibrating. Shewinced, worried that it would be Luke pestering her again. There had been four messages from him when she had woken that morning, asking her to call him. She really couldn’t face speaking to him.
She tapped on the screen and was relieved to see that it wasn’t Luke calling, but James.
‘Annabel, it’s good news!’ he began. ‘I’ve found him! Ravi Chowdhury, your grandmother’s former houseboy. He’s in a nursing home in Queenstown and has agreed to see us. He’s ninety-two now, but still has all his marbles. Where are you now? Have you got time this afternoon?’
Annabel’s pulse quickened and she felt her heart begin to race. She wasn’t sure if it was the prospect of meeting someone who had actually known her grandmother during her time in Singapore, or the thought of spending time with James. She took a deep breath to calm herself and made a plan to meet him.
Ravi Chowdhury was a small, wiry man with fine white hair and deep brown eyes. He was sitting peacefully in an armchair in the corner of his room, overlooking the nursing home’s lush garden of palm trees and bougainvillea. A ceiling fan whirred above, breaking the silence. There was a glass of water and a book on the table beside him, face down but open at his last page.
‘Mrs Llewellyn, you say?’ he asked with a deep Indian accent after Annabel had made their introductions. She was relieved to hear that his English was excellent.
She nodded and was pleased when Ravi’s studious face broke into a smile of remembrance.
‘I remember her well; a most pleasant lady. Always so kind. I was much younger than the other staff, you see, and far away from my family. But Mrs Llewellyn was always so good to me.She arranged for my lessons, you know, so that I could learn to read and write. For that, I will forever be grateful to her. She opened up a whole new world to me. Suddenly, I was travelling all over; Egypt, Venice and often a pretty English village called St Mary Mead.’ He pointed to the book on the table and Annabel grinned when she saw the author’s name.
‘Oh, Agatha Christie!’ She chuckled. ‘One of her favourites!’
Ravi’s face beamed in a wide smile. ‘Yes, yes! It was your grandmother who introduced me to Hercule Poirot and that funny little old lady, Miss Marple!’
Annabel smiled as she remembered watching adaptations on TV with her grandmother when she was young. Although Dotty declared every time, the books were far superior to the television versions.
‘What can you tell us aboutMisterLlewellyn, Mr Chowdhury?’ James asked.
A shadow fell across the old man’s face and his jaw tightened.
‘He was a bad man. A very bad man.’ Ravi shook his head slowly and closed his eyes, wincing as he seemed to take himself back in time.
‘What did he do to you, Mr Chowdhury?’ Annabel asked gently after a long pause.
Ravi opened his eyes and turned to look directly at her. ‘He used to beat me. Usually when he was three sheets to the wind.’ The old man spotted Annabel’s surprise at the colloquialism and smiled. ‘Ah, that was how Mrs Llewellyn described it, you see; I learned all my English from my employers.’ He nodded proudly before continuing. ‘Mr Llewellyn was an angry drunk. When he was under the influence he would become so impatient with us. I was the youngest and the lowest rank in the house and he would usually take out his frustration on me.’
Ravi paused in his narration and reached out to touch Annabel’s arm. He continued confidentially, ‘I hope I do not speak out of turn when I say that the Llewellyns’ marriage was not a happy one?’
Annabel smiled kindly at the old man and reassured him that she wanted him to speak plainly. She had warmed to him instantly and was enjoying the sound of his lilting, sing-song Indian accent.
‘Poor Mrs Llewellyn,’ he continued. ‘She put up with so much from that man. Drinking, gambling and even – forgive me ma’am – other women.’ He shook his head, a look of disgust on his face.
‘As I said before, he was a bad man. And I am sorry if I sound callous, but when he fell down the stairs, part of me felt relief. Relief for poor Mrs Llewellyn that he could not continue his cruelty towards her and relief for myself and the other staff that he could not beat us anymore.’
Ravi closed his eyes again and shook his head. The old memories seemed to pain him and Annabel returned his previous gesture and gently put her hand on his arm.
‘I’m sorry to drag up bad memories, Mr Chowdhury, I really am. You said that Mr Llewellynfelldown the stairs. Do you think that’s what really happened?’ Annabel could feel her heart racing as she braced herself for his answer. ‘I know that Mrs Llewellyn and he had been arguing beforehand. You don’t think there might have been some sort of tussle before he fell, do you?’
‘Yes ma’am.’ Ravi nodded in agreement. ‘There was a tussle and Mrs Llewellyn pushed him off her. Then she turned and ran to her bedroom. Mr Llewellyn turned to go back down the stairs but the rug had moved over the edge of the top step andhe slipped. He was completely blotto, you see. He slipped on the step and he fell; it was as simple as that.’
