The fever took Francis in four days. It started with just a headache and then, within a few hours, he felt chilled, so Annabelle wrapped him in a blanket and fed him hot soup and tea. Then a few hours later, he was burning up, sweating and vomiting the soup and tea. The first fever lasted six hours and then he slept. When he woke up, the fever was gone, but he said he ached all over. Annabelle was just relieved that the fever had passed, so she gave him more soup and rubbed his joints with camphor. The fever returned on the third day and Sutty came with a doctor, but it was too late. Early on the morning of the fourth day, Francis had a convulsion and went into a coma. He was dead before the sun went down.
Annabelle wept until she vomited and Sutty briefly feared she might have the fever herself, but she didn’t. Her skin was cold and clammy to the touch, and he could feel the bones in her back when he held her, trying to comfort her, but she was inconsolable. She was blind with grief and fear and rage. She wanted to lie beside Francis on the bed, hold him, keep his body warm with her own, as if she could bring him back to life with the heat of her own flesh. What was she going to do without Francis? How was she going to survive? How was she going to have this baby that he would never see?
Sutty, for his part, felt completely helpless. He could not console Annabelle; he could not bring Francis back. He could only pay the doctor and contact the authorities, see to the removal of Francis’s body to a funeral home, and pay whatever had to be paid for. Annabelle would not allow anyone to touch Francis’s body, and so it was only at dawn, when she was exhausted from crying and screaming at anyone other than Sutty who came into the room, that they were able to wrap Francis in a sheet and take him down the stairs to the removal wagon.
Sutty could see that Annabelle was mad with grief and he tried to get her to come with him to the Raffles, but she refused, saying she had to be near Francis, that she couldn’t leave in case it was all a mistake. How would Francis find her if she left? So Sutty went out and got some buns and some milk and came back and made tea and tried to get Annabelle to eat something. She drank the tea and took a couple of bites of the bun, but food was the last thing she wanted. Sutty sat with her until she finally fell asleep, around midnight of the fifth day. He had gotten some powders from the chemist and put them in her tea, hoping they would calm her down and help her sleep. They did, eventually, and she slept for several hours without moving.
Sutty sat in Francis’s armchair and dozed fitfully, waking every hour or two to check on Annabelle. He had never seen such grief in his life and it frightened him. When his father had died, his mother had not shown her tears to anyone, not even her son. They were shed in private, if they were shed at all, although Sutty couldn’t imagine that she hadn’t cried for her husband of so many years. They had had an amicable relationship and were fond of each other. He had no doubt of that. Maybe it was because they had been together for so long that she could more readily accept his death. They had lived their life, a good life, and the passing of one of them was inevitable. Perhaps because Annabelle had been married to Francis for so short a time, the shock and unfairness of his sudden death was so much harder to bear. Shock and grief: they left one emptied out. Frightened, even. Annabelle had lost her anchor; she had come untethered, and he could only imagine how terrifying that must be for her.
Sutty decided that when this was all over, when Francis was buried, he would persuade Annabelle to come back to England with him. He would accompany her because he couldn’t see her making the journey alone. He would not have to rearrange much; he lived an open-ended life and could come and go at will. How lucky I am, he thought, to be able to do this. But Sutty had always believed that life was short and sometimes brutal — he had witnessed the shortness and brutality often enough — and he didn’t believe in putting things off. That’s why he had admired Francis for his determination to make the most of what he had and to risk everything for a dream. And he had to admire Annabelle for leaving everything behind to come to Francis and be by his side while he chased the dream. It had been an act of faith, an act of love. She hadn’t wanted to come; she didn’t have Francis’s ambition. But she had understood that he had to do this thing, and that it could be an adventure, one that they would tell their grandchildren about from the security of England once Francis had achieved the dream and they were set for life.
Sutty began to weep for the cruel fate that had befallen them, two young people with all the love in the world to keep them going. Two people who had taken a chance on a future they would never see together. They had accepted the hardship and acquiesced to the necessary economies. They hadn’t yet reached a point where it might all be too much sacrifice for too little gain. That was still a long way off. And now it would never happen. Nor would Francis’s book happen, and the children, and the grandchildren, and all the rest of it.
His heart broke for them and he wept.
It was almost a month before Annabelle told Sutty about the baby she was expecting. During the weeks after Francis’s death, Sutty had tried to persuade Annabelle to leave the dingy little flat and come stay with him at the Raffles, or at another hotel if she chose, because there were so many memories, happy memories, starting with their wedding, that being at the Raffles would bring back. Annabelle wasn’t ready for that. She was still too immersed in her grief to begin reminiscing.
“A baby?” said Sutty. It took a minute for the enormity of it to sink in. A baby. What was Annabelle going to do with a baby? How would she cope? She could barely look after herself. She was so thin; the bones in her shoulders were visible through her light cotton dress. She barely slept at night and there were dark circles under her eyes. He had tried everything to get her to eat, to move, to leave Singapore and go back to England with him, but she was having none of it. She kept saying she needed to be near Francis. Near his spirit, she said.
They had buried Francis in the church cemetery, and Sutty had had a stone made and engraved with:
Francis Adolphus Stone
1890–1924
Beloved Husband of Annabelle.
Annabelle went there every day and sat on Francis’s grave. Sutty went with her a few times, but stopped going because he couldn’t bear to see her wretchedness.
“Yes, a baby,” she told Sutty. “I hadn’t even told Francis yet. It was too soon and I wanted to make sure everything would be all right.”
“But when?” said Sutty. “How long?”
“When is it due?” she asked. “In about five months.” She put her hand on her stomach and Sutty could see the slight roundness of her belly, despite the fact that she was so thin. “It’s still hanging on,” she said, “in spite of everything.”
“Yes,” said Sutty. “Stubborn, I guess, and tenacious.” Like his father, he thought, but didn’t say it in case it upset Annabelle.
She looked up at Sutty. She knew what he meant. This was Francis’s baby she was carrying, and this baby would not let go.
“I haven’t really thought much about it lately,” she said. And she sighed deeply, a sigh filled with every emotion she had been feeling since Francis’s death. “I’m so tired.”
“Why don’t you try to sleep, Annabelle? I’ll stay with you and read, if that will make you feel better.”
“Thank you, Sutty. You’ve been such a good friend to us. To me. I don’t think I can ever thank you for what you’ve done.”
“I’ll do whatever you need me to do.” He was embarrassed by the rawness of her feelings and by the sentiment. “Now,” he said, clearing his throat, “you go lie down and I’ll bring you a cup of tea.”
She did as he said. By the time the tea was ready, she was asleep, lying on her side with one hand on her belly, as if she were holding her unborn baby.