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was such a good writer. Of course she thought they were true, he told her. You were supposed to believe them. Look at Shakespeare. He wrote about tragedy because people wanted a good cry, and he wrote comedy because people also wanted to laugh. It’s all about bums in seats and cash in the till. People wouldn’t pay for it if they didn’t believe it.

      But Francis was an optimist, always seeing the best, and she was a pessimist, although she preferred to think of herself as a realist. The world was not a happy place and life wasn’t all happy endings. Even if you worked hard and did all the right things, you could still get run over by one of those beastly automobiles or lorries that seemed to be multiplying like rabbits. Or you could fall off of a bicycle and break your neck. Just last week she’d read about a woman who’d stepped into a lift where she worked and she’d fallen twelve floors to her death because the door had accidentally opened when there was no lift, just empty space. There were lots of words for these events — accidents, bad luck, providence, destiny — but to Annabelle there was only one word: life. Life was dangerous and if you ignored that fact, or chose to believe otherwise, you did so at your peril.

      Oh, but she missed Francis and his foolish optimism and his dreams of being a writer. She loved him more than anything because he almost made her believe that life could be good. That she would be safe with him. That because they loved each other, everything would work out, somehow. She wanted to be with him so badly, but in Singapore? It wasn’t the last place on earth she wanted to be, but it was nearly the last. China was probably worse, or India, or maybe Russia. Thank God Francis hadn’t gone to any of those countries. Or Africa. Singapore didn’t seem so bad when you compared it to some of those places. At least there were English people there, but there were English people in India and nothing could induce her to go to India. Oh, what to do? she thought.

      She knew Francis had no intention of coming back to England, at least not for a long time, and not unless something miraculous happened, like a rich uncle (if only he had one) dying and leaving him a fortune. He had counted up all his money to the last penny and told her, “It’s either five months in England or five years in Singapore, including the passage. And what can I write in five months? Think, Annabelle, think how much I could do in five years. Five whole years, if I’m careful.” If I’m careful, he’d said. Not if we’re careful. So did the five years include a wife or not?

      And what about her father? How could she leave him alone to fend for himself? She’d be worried the whole time that he wasn’t eating or that he was drinking too much or smoking too many cigarettes. It was an impossible choice.

      Maybe what she should do was go down to the P&O office and find out what it would cost for a one-way passage and when the next available ship would be sailing. That way she’d be able to tell Francis that it wasn’t possible for her to come. That it was too expensive or there wasn’t another ship leaving for four months. Then maybe he’d decide to come back and get a job and they could get married, and maybe even have a family. They could live with her father and they wouldn’t have to pay rent.

      London

      December 20, 1923

      Dearest Francis,

      I miss you so terribly and wish we could be together. I went to the P&O this week and they told me a one-way fare to Singapore would be fifty pounds, which we simply cannot afford. And the next ship will not be until the beginning of February.

      Father is not doing as well as I would like. Of course, he always says he’s fine, but I know it’s because he doesn’t want to be a bother. But since Mother died, he’s aged ten years. I want to weep whenever I look at him. He shuffles about like an old man and falls asleep in his chair in the evening listening to the wireless. It breaks my heart, Francis. He’s not even fifty-five years old.

      The weather here is nasty, as usual. A miserable chill that pierces to the bone. I envy you your sunshine and heat. The price of beef has gone up again, and soon we’ll be reduced to boiling the bones for dinner. As for butter and cream, we’ve had to cut in half what we usually take.

      Francis, I hope you are eating properly and well, and not drinking anything but the boiled water. Always make sure they boil it well, because I’ve heard that they just take water from the tap and fill the bottles with it. Go into the kitchen, if you must, to be sure. Better to be safe than sorry. And always wear a hat in the sun. It is very common to have sun stroke in the tropics and you don’t want that.

      Please take care of yourself and write again soon. Tell me everything you’re doing. Give my regards to Sutty and tell him I expect him to look out for you. Listen to what he says because he has experience in these things, meaning life in foreign countries, as he’s travelled so much.

      Please have a happy, happy Christmas, although I shall be missing you every minute. I miss you and think about you all the time and dream about you every night.

      All my love, your

      Annabelle

      The next letter, addressed to “Miss Annabelle Sweet,” arrived in early January and was from Sutty. In it was a cheque for sixty pounds.

      You must come, it said, because Francis is at his wits’ end, and so am I, if truth be told. He’s impossible to be with because all he talks about is you, Annabelle, and all he wants is you, his “Sweet Annabelle,” as he calls you. I implore you, Annabelle, for my sake if not for Francis’s, to come to Singapore. If I could put him on a ship and send him back, I would. But he is, quite honestly, better off here. You could live very well here and Francis could write something important. It’s not forever, Annabelle, but for now. Try to see it that way and maybe it won’t seem so bad to you. If you don’t come, he will waste his time and his money yearning for you, and I will go mad listening to him!

      Use the money to buy passage on the next ship, and consider it my wedding gift to you. No one will be happier to see you than I (except, of course, Francis Stone!) and we will both see to it that you are happy, comfortable, and above all, safe.

      I promise. In anticipation of seeing you soon, I remain,

      Yours,

      Edward Sutcliffe Moresby

      Annabelle embarked on the P&O steamship Narkunda on February 5, 1924. She had used Sutty’s cheque to pay for her fare, but had debated with herself long and hard before booking passage. Her father’s sister Ethel, herself recently widowed, had come for Christmas and had been persuaded to stay on. Her only child, a son, had taken the Public Services Examination and had been accepted in the British Indian Civil Service. He had left for Bombay in November and Ethel had found the loneliness more than she could bear. Although Annabelle’s father was reluctant to see her go, her aunt had assured her that he would be fine and that she was looking forward to keeping house for him. He was her favourite brother, she said, and it would also help her to have something to do.

      So Annabelle had no more excuses for not going to Singapore, other than the fact that she did not want to go, but she didn’t dare say that to anyone for fear it would get back to Francis. If she hadn’t loved him with all her heart, she might have found a way out of going. Or she might have tried to persuade him to come back to England. But she knew it was his dream to write and, because she had no dream of her own other than to marry Francis and have a family, she could not take away his chance to see it through. They would find a way, as he had said to her so many times. They would be happy.

      The ship was to travel by way of Gibraltar to Port Said and Aden, then on to Bombay, Colombo in Ceylon, Penang Island, and then down the Straits of Malacca to Singapore. It would take about a month to get there and Annabelle fretted that she would be bored and alone the whole time.

      Much to her surprise, the trip turned out to be relatively pleasant. After a few days of nausea that came in waves — a description she came to understand firsthand as she experienced the ship’s rolling beneath her in perfect harmony with the undulating sea — she found her “sea legs” and was able to take walks on the passenger deck and even enjoyed gazing at the stars in the seemingly endless black night sky. Standing on the ship’s deck she could believe that the world was flat, for there was nothing beyond the water and the sky. They came together

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