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  The flat – the first floor of an Edwardian building on the outskirts of the city, hence the high ceilings, decorative coving and large bay windows – was relatively tidy, although she’d left in a rush that morning. As always, it had a rather transitory look about it, as if Eva might be about to gather up all her belongings and move out. Which was probably, she decided, down to her state of mind. She had stayed in Bristol because this was where the jobs were, as far as the West Country was concerned. But it was more than that. Since she was six years old, she’d lived in a world where something you loved could be snatched away from you and nothing in your life would be the same again. She didn’t exactly love her flat, but it was practical, reasonable to rent and it suited her, for the moment.

  There was only one bedroom, which housed her Chinese ‘opium’ bed, bought on a whim from eBay and a purchase she’d never regretted; every time she laid her head on the pillow, she imagined its possibly lurid history. It never gave her nightmares though, instead it seemed to be seeped in relaxation. But the living-room-cum-kitchen was a space easily large enough for one. Or even two, Eva thought ruefully, as she hung her autumn tweedy jacket on a peg and chucked her bag on the sofa. The music was building, the melody becoming more layered. Max’s minimalist flat had been smarter but had less floor space and character. A bit, she thought, like Max himself. Or so it had turned out.

  Eva owned only a few pieces of special furniture, acquired over the past thirteen years. Apart from the bed and a sprawling sofa, there was a hand-carved and sturdy Chinese camphor-wood trunk in the bay window, with cushions it made a perfect window seat; a hand-painted mango-wood cabinet from Rajasthan on the far side of the room, bought at auction a few years ago to house her novels and reference books from uni and beside that, her favourite piece, a Meijiperiod Japanese red lacquered priest’s chair that had turned up out of the blue in the Emporium only a month ago. She owned nothing from Burma yet. It was still early days for the country, which made it all the more exciting from Eva’s point of view. What might she come back with for her own collection?

  There was a Japanese print on the wall, and the kitchen cupboards held a motley selection of china, some Oriental, some English bone, so thin that when you held it up to the light you could almost see right through. Max would never have moved in here, Eva reminded herself. Their styles didn’t match. They didn’t match. She’d been fooling herself for two years, that was all.

  Max. She poured that glass of wine, took a sip and went to run her bath. The sounds of Japancakes followed her through the flat, rising and falling, the perfect chill out music. She’d met him in a cinema queue. Someone in front of her had trodden on her toe, she’d taken a little jump back and managed to throw toffee popcorn all over Max, who was standing right behind her. It had proved to be quite an ice breaker. He had suggested they sit together, it had seemed natural to go for a drink afterwards to discuss the film, and the rest, she thought grimly, was history.

  And now they were history too. Eva turned the hot tap and swirled in a generous dollop of her favourite bath oil. She wanted to lie back, relax, sip her wine and think about going to Burma. What did it matter that she hadn’t yet met a man she wanted to spend her life with? What did it matter that she had spent two years with Max before she discovered his other agenda? If she were honest … Max had turned her head from the start. He was older, charming, sophisticated. He had not only taken her out to shows, events and to all the latest restaurants for dinner, but he’d often surprised her with gifts of jewellery and even weekends in Paris and Rome. Which was all very nice. Eva fetched her wine and began to peel off her dusty work clothes, piece by piece. The steam from the bath was already filling the room. She turned the tap and added some cold. But it wasn’t really love, was it? Part of her had always known that.

  And in two years their relationship had barely moved on. She began to hum as the track changed to ‘Heaven or Las Vegas’ – a good question, if it was one. Max had met her grandfather and she had met his formidable mother on one of the rare occasions when she’d swept through Bristol. But other than that … It was as if, she realised, they were still dating. They had often woken up together, but never discussed the future. They had given each other keys to their flats, but more as a matter of convenience, she suspected, than a wish to share their lives. Because they hadn’t become close, at least not in the way that Eva imagined you became close with someone who was special. Apart from Lucas at uni – and that, she knew, had been more of a friendship than a love affair – Max was the nearest she had ever got to a full-time relationship with a man.

  The water reached a perfect temperature and was as deep as Eva liked it. She lowered herself in, felt the liquid heat against her skin and smelled the neroli orange blossom rising from the essential oil. What would have happened, she wondered, if she hadn’t gone round to his flat that afternoon one month ago? Would they still be together? Would she be thinking, even now, about where he would be taking her tonight, rather than contemplating a relaxing evening in alone?

  It had been an unusual situation. Eva had stayed the night at Max’s and the following day at work realised she didn’t have her mobile and that she’d left it at his flat. She’d remembered a text that had come through; she must have left the phone on the coffee table after she’d answered it. She tried to call him, but his mobile was switched off; Max was a criminal lawyer so he was probably with a client. She’d nip round and get it at lunch-time, she decided. It wasn’t far, he wouldn’t mind …

  Eva dipped her head back to soak her hair; she’d wash it under the shower later. She sank into the restful curve of the bath and had another sip of wine. From the moment she’d walked into the hall, she knew something was wrong. And she didn’t have far to look. They were in the living room on the sofa, still adjusting their clothing, Max and some girl she’d never seen before, her make-up smudged over his pink shirt, her skirt still half way up her thighs. What a cliché. Eva hadn’t hung around to witness their embarrassment or hear any pathetic excuses. She’d picked up her phone – still on the coffee table as she’d suspected, interesting that they hadn’t even noticed it – and walked out, leaving his key on the hook by the door. Only afterwards did she remember the odd phone call which Max had left the room to take, once or twice when he’d cancelled their dates. The signs had been there, she supposed. She just hadn’t let herself see.

  More fool her. Eva began to soap her body, starting with her arms, generous with the lather. She’d been upset about Max, of course. But now … She was over him. She dipped under again. She’d reclaimed her life. And she was going to Burma.

  When the water began to cool, she washed her hair and rinsed off under the shower and then climbed out, wrapping herself in a big white fluffy towel. He’d have finished his dinner by now. She paused the music. It was time to tell her grandfather.

  He listened to the news without saying very much at first. Then, ‘Well, Eva,’ he said. ‘My goodness. I can scarcely believe it. Burma. That’s wonderful.’ He drew in a shaky breath, perhaps remembering his own life there, she thought. ‘Really wonderful.’ He paused. ‘Are you looking forward to it, my dear?’

  Was she looking forward to it? ‘I can’t wait.’

  ‘And when are you going?’

  ‘Next week.’ As soon as it could be arranged, she guessed. Jacqui didn’t want any of those enticing antiques going anywhere other than to the Emporium. But there was a good deal of money at stake. Burmese traders, like any others, understood international markets: those artefacts wouldn’t be going cheap.

  ‘Next week!’ He seemed quite shocked at this. ‘So soon?’

  ‘I think so.’

  There was another long pause. What was he thinking? She imagined she could hear the cogs whirring. ‘I wonder,’ he said. ‘I wonder.’

  Eva smiled to herself. ‘What do you wonder, Grandpa?’

  She heard him take another breath. ‘If you could possibly come here first, Eva?’ he asked, his voice qua
vering just a little, the words coming out in a rush. ‘Can you come to see me before you go?’

  ‘Well …’ She hadn’t planned to. She adored her grandfather, of course, but this weekend would be quite a rush. Although it was tempting. Eva loved West Dorset and she still thought of it as home. Her mother no longer lived there … And Eva pushed that thought swiftly away. But her grandfather was her home – hadn’t he always been?

  ‘It’s important, my dear,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t ask otherwise. I wouldn’t expect it of you. Only …’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘Important?’ Not just that he wanted to see her before she made the trip then? Eva hesitated.

  ‘There’s something that should have been done a long, long time ago,’ he murmured. ‘It’s too late for me to do it now, of course. Perhaps I made a terrible mistake. I just don’t know for sure. But if you …’

  What was he talking about? Eva waited. She could hear his breath, thin and wheezy on the other end of the line. She didn’t like the way he sounded. What should have been done a long time ago? What terrible mistake?

  ‘It’s such an opportunity, my darling,’ he said, a sense of wonder in his old voice. ‘For you and for me. Almost heavensent. But I’m wondering if it’s too much to ask. And after all these years …’

  ‘If what’s too much to ask, Grandpa?’ Eva was intrigued. ‘What is it? Can you tell me?’

  ‘Yes. I should tell you, Eva.’ And just for a moment he didn’t sound like her frail grandfather. Instead, Eva had a mental picture of him as a young man, before he went to Burma perhaps, when he was only seventeen.

  ‘I’ll come over tomorrow evening,’ she said, making an instant decision. ‘I’ll stay the night.’

  ‘Thank you, my darling.’ He let out a breath as if he’d been holding it, waiting.

  Eva was thoughtful as she ended the call and clicked on to her gmail. She re-started the music. It was a mystery, but she’d find out soon enough. At least her grandfather was pleased that she was going. It wouldn’t be nearly so easy, she knew, to tell her mother.

  CHAPTER 3

  Eva parked her ancient but much-loved red-and-black Citroen 2CV in the drive and got out. She pulled on her jacket, grabbed her overnight bag from the passenger seat, slammed the door sufficiently hard for it to shut properly and walked up the path to the front door. The yellow stone was pockmarked by sea winds and the green paint on the door was a little cracked and faded, but otherwise the house of her childhood looked much the same as always, the orange rose climbing from its pot by the bay window up to the black roof slates and beyond, still in full bloom. Eva bent to sniff the nearest blossom. The scent of tea-rose immediately whirled her back to childhood days, making rosewater perfume and picnics on the lawn in summer. Those were the good bits. It was different – everything was different – after her world fell apart. But she wouldn’t dwell on that now, not when she had Burma to look forward to. Not to mention her grandfather’s mystery.

  She lifted the brass door-knocker and let it fall. Pulled her hair out from under her collar. Waited.

  Her grandfather opened the door, beaming. ‘Hello, darling. Come in, come in.’ He helped her with her bag, took her tweedy jacket and hung it on a hook by the door. ‘How was your journey? I suppose the roads were busy? They always are these days.’

  ‘The journey was fine,’ Eva reassured him.

  He turned to her. ‘Let me look at you.’

  Eva pulled down the sleeves of her lacy blouse and slipped the silk scarf she was wearing from her neck, tucking it next to her jacket. ‘Let me look at you,’ she said. Her grandfather had always been tall and lean. But was he a little more bent than the last time she’d seen him? Was his kind and familiar face more lined?

  ‘You look as lovely as ever.’ He smiled. ‘How about a hug from my favourite girl?’

  Eva stepped into his open arms and closed her eyes, just for a moment. His hair was fine wisps of snow-white. His fawn woollen cardigan smelt of eucalyptus and wood, a fragrance she seemed to have lived with all her life.

  ‘Do you mind if we eat in the kitchen tonight, darling?’ he asked, holding her at arm’s length for a moment, his hands on her shoulders. ‘It’s so much more cosy now that the nights are drawing in.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Eva followed his slow passage along the L-shaped hall past the shelf of memorabilia that her grandfather had brought back to the UK after his Burmese days. She knew it all so well, but now she lingered, taking it all in as if for the first time: the wooden elephant bells, a souvenir of his work in forestry; the set of opium weights made in the image of Buddha; the Burmese flowered paper parasol and finally the Japanese flag in a bamboo case, the silk burned by shrapnel during the war. And soon, she reminded herself, she would be experiencing her own Burmese days.

  In the farmhouse kitchen at the back of the house, the Aga’s reassuring warmth filled the room and one of Mrs Briggs’s stews bubbled on the hob, a rich fragrance emanating from the pan. Two places had been set at either end of the old pine table and a bottle of red wine had been uncorked but not poured. Thank goodness for Mrs Briggs. Now that he was on his own, Eva’s grandfather needed her help with cooking and housework more than ever. Eva knew how much he valued his independence. And she couldn’t see him anywhere else but here, in his own house, big, rambling and impractical as it was. It was part of him. It always had been.

  Eva pulled off her laced leather ankle boots and left them in the corner next to her grandfather’s green wellies. That was better. The ridges of the flagstone tiles felt reassuringly familiar, and warm from the heat of the Aga on her stockinged feet.

  Her grandfather was watching her appraisingly. ‘How about a drink?’ he suggested. ‘I’ve opened a particularly pleasant Burgundy I’d like you to try.’ His faded blue eyes held a definite twinkle.

  Eva smiled. Her grandfather was quite a wine buff these days. And since Eva’s grandmother’s death, he had allowed himself to pursue his hobby even more keenly. ‘That sounds lovely, Grandpa.’

  With a shaky hand, he poured them both half a glass. ‘Lovely to see you, my dear.’

  ‘And you, Grandpa.’ Eva took a sip. The wine was as mellow and rich as antique velvet. ‘That is very good.’ She put the glass down and lifted the lid of the stewpot. ‘Mmm. And this smells wonderful. What would we do without Mrs Briggs?’ She wouldn’t rush him. Let him tell her what he wanted her to do in his own good time.

  ‘What, indeed?’ He chuckled. ‘It’s ready when you are.’ He steadied himself for a moment on the antique dresser.

  ‘Let me.’ Eva put down her glass and fetched the plates from the warming oven. She began to ladle out the beef stew.

  ‘I expect you’ve been wondering why I asked you to come here this weekend, hmm?’ Her grandfather eased himself down on the chair. ‘Selfish old fool that I am.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Eva brought the plates over to the table. ‘You could never be selfish.’

  ‘Ah, well.’ He shook his head. ‘You wait till you hear what I’ve got to say before you decide.’

  Eva smiled. ‘Eat up.’

  He smiled back at her and picked up his fork. Took a mouthful and chewed slowly, watching her all the while. ‘I don’t want to take advantage of your situation, my darling. But when you said you were going to Burma … I saw immediately. It is what you might say, fortuitous.’

  ‘Fortuitous?’ Eva picked up her glass and took another sip of her wine. It was a strange choice of words. But she trusted him. Her grandfather might be old and frail, but his mind was razor-sharp, it always had been.

  He dabbed at his lips with his paper napkin. ‘When you grow old, you have plenty of time to think,’ he said.

  ‘About Burma?’ Eva guessed. She speared a potato and dipped it in the rich, fragrant gravy.

  He nodded. ‘And other things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Decisions that have been made, pathways that have been taken, wrongs that should have been made right.’
>
  Eva reached across the table, which still bore the indentations of pens and pencils pressed a bit too hard during childhood crayoning sessions, and squeezed his hand. ‘Everyone has regrets,’ she said. It wasn’t something reserved for the old.

  ‘Even you, my dear?’ He watched her sadly.

  ‘Even me.’ Eva thought of her mother. Too many regrets. Even at sixteen, you could make a decision that could snatch a person away from you. Was that what she had done? She wasn’t sure though that she could have done it any differently.

  He leaned forwards, those blue eyes as intelligent as ever and put his other hand over hers. ‘But you’re not talking about Max, I hope?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ He released her hand and Eva took another forkful of Mrs Briggs’ beef stew. ‘I’m not talking about Max.’

  Her grandfather chuckled as he carefully topped up both their glasses. ‘I’m glad to hear it. That man wasn’t anywhere near good enough for my favourite girl.’

  Eva smiled back at him. He’d never liked Max, and yet again, he’d been proved right. But she noticed that he’d pushed his plate away leaving most of the stew uneaten. ‘Had enough?’ she asked him. She didn’t want to fuss, she knew that Mrs Briggs did enough fussing as it was. But she couldn’t help worrying. He meant so much to her. He wasn’t so much a grandparent as the life-force behind her childhood.

  He nodded. ‘My appetite isn’t what it was, my dear.’

  Head on one side, Eva regarded him. ‘What is it that you regret, Grandpa?’ she asked. She couldn’t believe he’d done anything so very bad. Maybe things had happened in the war that had scared him or that he hated to think of, but he would never have willingly hurt anyone, not if he didn’t have to.