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  Had it? Lawrence wasn’t so sure. It had made him dissatisfied, he knew that much. But that was when he came back. As for the rest, she was right. Life was about seeing new places, wasn’t it? Experiencing new things. Not sticking to what you knew and who you knew and staying in London working as a stockbroker in the family firm. There were worlds out there that others had explored and conquered. The British Empire was vast and he wanted to experience some of it. How could working in the family firm satisfy him? How could Helen? But he wouldn’t think of Helen.

  ‘Plenty of time for that,’ his mother had told him, a gleam of satisfaction in her diplomat’s eye. ‘Plenty of time, my darling, for you to spread your wings a little.’

  And fly, he thought. And fly.

  *

  Some of it, some of Burma, this land of dark-skinned people, overwhelming heat and golden temples, had been exactly as he had expected. It was different, it was exotic, it had a colour and a heady fragrance that made him dizzy. And it had its hard side too. It could be rough and uncomfortable. The heat could be unbearable. So could the mosquitos. There was poverty and hardship. One couldn’t – or shouldn’t – take Western comforts for granted.

  Work had been a revelation. When he signed up at the company, Lawrence had given hardly a thought for the conditions he’d work under in the teak camps, for the labour he would be commanding in all weathers under pressure, getting as many good logs as humanly possible into the river and on their way down the raging Irrawaddy to Rangoon. Although in the end, humans didn’t have as much to do with it as elephants.

  And the people …

  ‘They look up to us,’ Scottie had said, trying to explain how things worked, how the system of the British clubs with their unquestioned luxuries, whist drives, cocktail parties and dances operated in apparently comfortable harmony with the poverty often seen on the streets, women begging, men in ragged clothes desperate to do a deal, children stealing scraps from the market in order to survive.

  He seemed so sure. And yes, the Europeans were the undisputed masters, no doubt of that; the last Burmese dynasty had burned itself out in the previous century. Burned itself out, or been burned out by the British Empire, which had no qualms in using its superior weapons, knowledge and experience to get what it wanted. Or so some said. Scottie had all the stories. His father had been a witness to it all. Scottie and the rest of his family were bound up in the colonial web of imperialism more securely than anyone Lawrence had ever met. And that was good, because it was Scottie who had shown him the ropes and Scottie knew all the rules.

  Lawrence had seen his fair share since he’d been here. He’d got into the rhythm of the weather, the heat and the rains which ruled everything, and he’d grown accustomed to the food, which wasn’t so bad if you liked curry and rice. From February to May was the worst time, the hottest, when your shirt would stick to your back five minutes after you’d put it on and the white glare of the heat could drive you half-mad if you let it. In July and August the rains came with hardly a break in the monsoon, and this was when the real work was done with the timber, when the race was on to get the logs down the rivers and safely to the company’s timber yard at Rangoon. Then the rains would tail off, ending with a final squall in October. The fields would dry up and there would be, at last, a wonderful short winter, when the breeze was mild instead of burning, when wild flowers reminiscent of those in English meadows grew in the rural areas, when the paddy grew and ripened into yellow and the nights and mornings could even be cold in the upper reaches of the country, with a cooling mist that filled the valleys and hung over the hills.

  The company was generous in giving leave, perhaps it knew that it had to be in order to keep its young blood healthy and content, relatively speaking, at least. Like the rest of them, Lawrence enjoyed visits to Rangoon, going to the English bookshop to stock up on reading material for those long evenings alone in camp, out to sample steak dinners with as many G and Ts and as much ice as you wanted (there was no running out of ice in Rangoon …). He enjoyed his regular bouts of R and R up at the hill-station too and the easy camaraderie of the chummery there at Pine Rise in Maymyo, the guesthouse owned by the company and used as bachelor quarters for the single male employees. But there was something about the British clubs that left him cold.

  They know who are the masters, Scottie had said. But sometimes Lawrence wondered. Us and them. Was it that simple? He thought not. It was a careless racism that was little more than an assumption. Could it be right to make such an assumption? It seemed to Lawrence that there was something in their eyes …

  *

  There was something in her eyes. She was standing by a stall and he could see her in profile. Small, neat, self-assured. And when she looked up …

  The stall holder, an Indian, was selling hand woven rugs and blankets. The girl was inspecting a piece of cloth. She held it lightly between her fingers. She wore a longyi of bright orange and yellow like the streak of a sunset and her hair hung down past her shoulders as dark and glossy as a bird’s wing slicked in oil. Her nails were pale pink, almost white, her lips a kind of bruised plum. And there was the slightest pucker of a frown on her brow. She was perfection, in miniature.

  Scottie followed his gaze. He leaned closer to Lawrence. ‘I know what you’re thinking, old man.’

  Lawrence ignored his grin.

  ‘She’s a stunner.’

  But it wasn’t that. Lawrence moved towards the stall, couldn’t help himself. She was attractive, yes, but lots of girls were attractive. Helen was attractive – she was a beauty – or so his parents kept reminding him, a fragile, very English kind of beauty. And more significantly, she was the only daughter of his father’s business partner and closest friend. But the look of this woman wasn’t just striking, she’d walloped him right in the pit of his chest.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ The stallholder was quick to notice his interest. ‘You like a nice new rug, sir? What colour is it to be? Red, blue, yellow? What size, sir?’

  ‘A blanket.’ Lawrence addressed him but looked at the girl.

  She glanced up as he spoke, but immediately glanced down again. The Burmese were like that. They weren’t meek, but they were self-effacing, the opposite, he thought now, of women like his mother, like Helen. They know their station, Scottie would say. Lawrence suspected they knew rather more than that. And no doubt were careful not to show it.

  ‘What kind of blanket, sir? Wool? Cotton? Silk? I have very good collection. What colour? Red? Yellow? Brown?’ Deftly, he swept first one blanket, then another, then another down from the display, flourishing each in front of Lawrence for his approval. Pretty soon the stall was in complete disarray, swathed in fabrics of every material and hue.

  Scottie stood to one side and languidly lit a cigarette.

  The girl seemed about to move away.

  ‘That one,’ Lawrence said quickly, indicating the blanket she still held lightly between her fingers. ‘Let me see that one.’

  ‘Indeed, sir, a fine choice.’ The stallholder whisked it away from her.

  She blinked and took a graceful step backwards. Lawrence noticed her feet which were tiny and clad in red silk slippers.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Lawrence addressed her. ‘You were here first.’

  She shook her head, took another step backwards.

  Would she speak English, he wondered. Many of them did, and Hindustani too. Scottie spoke fluent Burmese. If she didn’t speak English, would he act as interpreter? Lawrence hadn’t had time to get to grips with the language yet.

  ‘Really. Please. So rude of me.’ Lawrence grabbed the blanket, which was made of a soft and fine wool. He handed it to her. ‘It is a good blanket, is it not?’ His voice to his own ears sounded tender, and this was a surprise.

  She looked up at him. Her dark eyes were calm, but he saw in them a curl of humour that gave him hope. He’d been right. This wasn’t some poor and lowly Burmese servant girl. This was a young woman of class. She understood him, he could t
ell.

  ‘It is very fine,’ she conceded in perfect English. Her voice was soft and gentle, it seemed to stroke his senses. And as he continued to hold the blanket out to her, she reached out her hand and again held the fabric, smoothing it with her fingertips.

  ‘Lawrence Fox.’ He gave a little bow. ‘Please excuse my bad manners. Blame the heat, it must be affecting me.’ A weak attempt at humour, he knew. But it was all he could strum up at the present time.

  Scottie cleared his throat. ‘Jimmy Scott,’ he said.

  ‘We are both at your service.’ Lawrence smiled.

  She nodded her head in acknowledgement but made no attempt to reciprocate their introductions.

  What next? Lawrence had always considered himself pretty expert at chatting up the girls. Warming them up with a compliment and a joke, making them laugh, moving in for the thaw, that sort of thing. Not that he had a wealth of experience to draw on. But somehow, knowing he was destined for Helen Forster had freed him to playing fast and loose whenever he had the chance. Cross that bridge when he came to it. But this girl wasn’t like any of the other girls. She wasn’t British for a start. He had no idea what to bloody do.

  ‘And may I enquire your name?’ he said, quietly so as not to intimidate her. At least she hadn’t walked away.

  ‘Moe Mya,’ she said.

  ‘Moe Mya,’ he repeated. The short syllables were small and neat like her. And yet, as he looked into those eyes, he’d like to bet she could let go. Not in the way Scottie and the others in the club might joke about it, but … Well, in the real meaning of letting go.

  She nodded. ‘Some call me Maya,’ she said. Her lips pursed together slightly.

  I want to kiss them, he thought. Jesus. He felt an ache, almost a pain, in his groin. What was the matter with him?

  He offered what he hoped was a suave, confident but reassuring smile. ‘And you live here in Mandalay?’ he asked.

  ‘I live with my father, yes,’ she said. ‘Most of the time.’

  ‘And the rest of the time?’ Was there a man in the picture? Lawrence desperately needed to know.

  ‘Sometimes we stay in Maymyo. My father has a house there.’

  Lawrence acknowledged this with a nod. The hill station of Maymyo was situated at a higher altitude than Mandalay and was cooler and restful. Some said it was like England with its grass and neat manicured gardens, its road names reminiscent of his homeland, such as Downing Street and Forest Road. And Lawrence knew that its Englishness was confusing to the Burmese – even the notion of a garden planted with flowers was confusing, since wild flowers were so abundant, why would one plant one’s own? But it wasn’t just the British who went there. Any Burmese family in Mandalay who had money would generally also have a place in Maymyo for holidays and weekends. Her admission had reinforced his previous impression. She was not a poor native girl. She was, for Burma, a class act.

  ‘And I have an aunt who lives in Sinbo. It is a small village on the Irrawaddy near Myitkyina.’ She looked down at her feet in the red silk slippers. ‘She lives alone and sometimes needs me to help her.’

  ‘Indeed.’ That was even more interesting. Because Lawrence was working in the jungle up near Myitkyina and her aunt’s village was only a few miles away.

  She looked back up at him from under her eyelids. Was she flirting with him? It wasn’t the kind of flirting he was used to, but there was something, some dark knowledge in her eyes that drew him forward. He saw Scottie grind his cigarette under the heel of his boot, noticed that he was getting restless.

  ‘See you back at the club, old man?’ he asked with a wink.

  ‘Yes. Perhaps …’ What was the etiquette? Would she be welcomed in the bar there? Should he invite her? Lawrence wasn’t sure of the form. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. ‘You could tell me more?’ he asked her, instead of what he had been going to say.

  ‘More?’ Her eyes were innocent and yet knowing.

  ‘About Mandalay. About your life here.’ Not the club, he decided. She didn’t belong there, he wouldn’t insult her.

  She gave a little shrug as if Europeans waylaid her regularly to ask her such questions.

  ‘You must know the city well?’

  ‘My family has always lived here,’ she said. ‘My grandmother was a servant girl to the Queen.’ Her slim back was already straight, but as she spoke these words she seemed to stand straighter still.

  ‘Really? I say …’ Lawrence was brave enough to take her arm. Scottie had already strolled off. He only had one chance with this girl and he wasn’t going to chuck it away.

  ‘Yes,’ said Moe Mya. ‘It is true.’

  ‘About the blanket, sir?’ The stallholder complained. ‘You like the blanket, yes?’

  ‘Shall we walk for a while?’ Lawrence asked her.

  She looked doubtfully around. And it was true that there wasn’t really anywhere to walk to.

  ‘To the Palace moat? It isn’t far.’ He could hear the recklessness in his own voice. But there was something. Perhaps she felt it too.

  ‘The blanket …?’

  ‘I’ll take it.’ Lawrence reached for his wallet.

  She drew back, shocked. ‘You have not even agreed a price,’ she said.

  Lawrence grinned. ‘How much?’ he asked the stallholder. ‘Name your figure and don’t be greedy or I might change my mind.’

  He could see the cogs spinning. How much would lose the sale? How unpredictable might a man like Lawrence be? By this stage Lawrence didn’t even know the answers himself.

  The stallholder named his price.

  Moe Mya replied in Burmese. Lawrence had no idea what she said – he really must make more of an effort – but something must have been agreed because the stallholder argued briefly, then shrugged, nodded and began to fold the blanket into a neat square.

  Lawrence passed over some money, tried not to feel that the initiative had somehow smoothly been taken out of his hands.

  She passed him the blanket. ‘They will not respect you if you let them cheat you,’ she said softly.

  He could feel her warm breath on his neck as she leaned closer. She smelt of coconut oil. This was the first time she had somehow separated herself from her people. Had she aligned herself with him? Us and them. Lawrence didn’t understand it, but for him he felt it was no bad thing.

  ‘You must barter. It is part of the game.’

  The game … ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘And now?’

  ‘We will walk towards the moat of the Royal Palace,’ she said, as if it had been her idea all along. ‘And I will tell you about Mandalay.’

  CHAPTER 7

  ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

  Eva looked up from her guidebook to see a tall blond stranger smiling down on her. For a moment she was almost blinded by the reflection of the sun on his hair. ‘Oh. Well …’

  ‘Only there are no empty tables.’ He indicated the café terrace around them and it was true, it was lunchtime and the place was heaving.

  ‘Of course I don’t mind, that’s fine.’ Eva was sorry for her initial hesitation.

  She looked over at the busy street on the other side of the terrace. The people of Yangon were going about their business in the sweltering heat. Men and women in longyis, often carrying their wares on top of their heads in wide baskets as they elegantly threaded their way through the crowded streets. Different races, Sikhs, Shan, Indian, Thai, doing business on street corners. Street sellers and food-stalls, motor bikes and scooters with girls in longyis riding side-saddle, open-air trucks and trishaws … It was a riot of noise and colour. Eva had almost had heart failure when her taxi from the airport had hit a traffic jam. The driver had given a cursory glance at the road ahead and simply continued, driving on the other side. No one had seemed to care.

  There still weren’t many Westerners around in Yangon. And so when you saw one you tended to gravitate towards them to discuss local sights and the best places to eat. In other words, this blond stranger wasn’t
coming on to her, he just wanted to have lunch.

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate that,’ he said, as he perused the menu.

  She could tell from his accent that he wasn’t British. German, she guessed. His English was excellent though. And, like her, he seemed to be travelling alone. This was unusual. Most of the Westerners she’d spotted clustered in small groups with their tour guides as if Myanmar might otherwise taint them, though with what, she wasn’t sure.

  ‘Min-ga-laba. Welcome.’ A young Burmese waiter appeared. Like many of the Burmese he kept grinning and saying hello to tourists all the time. She’d had no reason so far to worry about travelling alone. The people in this city were the friendliest and most helpful she’d ever come across.

  Earlier today, Eva had taken a taxi to the randomly placed gilded stupa of Sule Playa, at forty-eight metres high and positively glowing in the sunlight, it sat slap bang in the middle of the British-constructed grid system that made up downtown Yangon. And then, thinking of her grandfather, she’d got out, paid the driver and walked on to the grand colonial buildings on the waterfront. Already, the heat was all-consuming, the pavements baking and the Burmese were using umbrellas as sunshades as they walked down the street. Her grandfather had told her what it was like arriving at Yangon on the steamer and, standing there, Eva could imagine. Stepping on to the jetty, walking on to the wide waterfront, faced by the Victorian High Court building, which could have been plucked from London’s Embankment, and the classic Strand Hotel. If Sule Playa reminded her that even in bustling downtown Yangon she was still in the land of golden temples, then these colonial architectural masterpieces were an equally resonant echo of the grandness of Imperial Britain.

  Her grandfather had stayed in the Strand and so Eva stepped into its cool, air-conditioned interior, admired the luscious creaminess of the walls which set off to perfection the teak staircase, gallery and furnishings in the high-ceilinged foyer. It was pure, understated luxury. But her grandfather hadn’t strolled through hallways of precious Burmese art and jewellery as Eva was now doing. He would have stayed in a mosquito-infested room cooled by an electric paddle fan in those days. Even so, even before all its renovations, from what he’d told her, the colonial life in the Strand Hotel and elsewhere had been lavish and comfortable. At least compared to what most of the native Burmese had to endure.