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  ‘How strange it all seems,’ she murmured.

  ‘It can take a long time to get to Rangoon by river,’ he explained to her. ‘Weeks, sometimes months. One has to take everything one will need.’ The rafts were powered by the current of the river and guided by oars.

  ‘And when they get there? What will they do then?’ She was teasing him now, that spark in her dark eyes that he had noticed at the market, that meant that she understood him, even that she was laughing at him perhaps. Not that he minded. As long as she was there.

  ‘The company gives them rail tickets to return to their villages,’ he told her, keeping his back straight and proud. They weren’t so bad, were they? It wasn’t such an unsatisfactory job. What else would they do? ‘And they stay there until the next rains.’

  ‘Perfect.’ She laughed.

  The cycle of the seasons, the cycle of life. It was something that perhaps Britain had lost somehow with its city ways and industry. But it was here, Lawrence thought now. It was here.

  ‘And when will you go back to camp?’ Moe Mya asked him, her face serene. Was she wondering when she would see him again? Did she want to see him again?

  ‘Just before the rains,’ he said. There was no sign as yet, but it couldn’t be long. All the extractions had been completed, the logs were arranged instream and the ounging herds were patiently waiting … It was a frustrating time. There was a sense of achievement but they needed that rain. And the heat went on.

  ‘They will come soon,’ she said. ‘And now, I must go.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Please excuse me.’

  ‘Oh.’ He almost stumbled as he too got up from the chair. They had been sitting there for so long and he had quite lost track of time.

  She shivered as they stepped outside, though to Lawrence the heat still seemed to hang heavy in the darkness that had now fallen.

  ‘May I?’ He put the blanket he was still holding gently around her shoulders. ‘It is yours,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you.’ She looked suddenly vulnerable as she stood there on the street with the thin blanket around her.

  On impulse, he bent down and very gently brushed her lips with his. She didn’t flinch as he’d thought she might, but neither did she respond. ‘I can see you again?’ He tried not to make it sound too much like a question – that way, she could refuse.

  She bowed her head. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good.’ He came to a sudden decision. ‘And I too will call you Maya,’ he said.

  CHAPTER 11

  Eva walked out on to the wooden verandah at Pine Rise in Pyin Oo Lwin, previously known as Maymyo. The goods she had come to see in Mandalay weren’t ready to be inspected. She had emailed Jacqui who didn’t seem overly concerned and who had agreed that Eva could take a few days of her leave here. There would be plenty for her to see, Jacqui had confirmed, when she returned to the city.

  After the stifling heat, the hustle and bustle and traffic spilling in all directions in downtown Mandalay: rundown cars, scooters, trishaws, bicycles weaving around one other, signalling their intent with sharp bursts of the hooter or rings of the bell, this was an oasis of calm. And so it must have seemed to her grandfather when he stayed here. Eva took a deep breath of the clean air. A taste of paradise. The wide and dusty teak verandah felt solid and reassuring under her feet and there was a freshness in the air and a lushness to the planting that felt like silk on her somewhat frazzled senses.

  In Mandalay, Eva had braved the city madness and taken a hair-raising taxi ride on the back of a scooter to the first address her grandfather had given her. She’d plucked up the courage to knock on the door of the rather smart traditional Burmese house and wondered. Could this be where she would find her? But the young girl with ebony hair and a big smile who said, ‘Hello, hello,’ to Eva as if she were a long lost friend had not been able to help her.

  ‘Gone ten year,’ she’d said, holding up both hands.

  ‘Do you know where?’ Eva had gesticulated to try and get her meaning across.

  The girl shook her head sadly.

  ‘OK. Thanks.’ But now she knew. The family, or some of them, had survived the war. They had lived in this house until ten years ago. And Eva still had address number two.

  The address written on the second slip of paper was here in Pyin Oo Lwin.

  As soon as she received Jacqui’s email, Eva had checked out of her hotel in Mandalay and booked herself back in again for two days’ time. Then she’d made a reservation at Pine Rise. Her need to follow the trail was all-consuming. It was easy to get a driver and she’d enjoyed the journey this morning as they drove from the broad plain of the Irrawaddy towards the old hill-station of Maymyo. Already the landscape had changed. The earth was a rich red and the vegetation more abundant; oleander and tall bamboo, poinsettia and mimosa lining the way with red and yellow and bursts of shocking purple.

  Pyin Oo Lwin itself was an elegant and leafy town with avenues of eucalyptus trees hiding mock-Tudor houses, grand red-bricked villas and white bungalows positively shimmering in the sun. The houses were set far apart and in extensive grounds, their background, pine woodland and, in the distance, rolling hills of oak. They passed the Purcell Tower which her grandfather had told her housed a clock that used to chime with the same sound as Big Ben – how English was that?! – and a vibrant flower market. And finally, there it was. Pine Rise. Airy and light. All polished teak, clotted cream walls and glass chandeliers. Eva loved it on sight.

  Her grandfather had spent a lot of time here, in the colonial guesthouse once owned by the company he worked for, now a hotel. It had provided rest and recuperation after a session working up in the jungle. It was a place in which to unwind, relax, recharge the batteries along with other company colleagues, before plunging back into the fray. He’d also spent time here recuperating from a bout of malaria.

  Eva looked out over the lawn, where a carpet of yellow celandine-like flowers was just opening into bloom and, in the centre, a hexagonal wooden bench with a pergola above. Maya’s family had also owned a weekend- and holiday-retreat here, hence the address written in her grandfather’s hand in Eva’s purse. Apparently, many of the well-off Burmese still did. It was two hours’ drive from Mandalay, but at a higher altitude and so refreshingly cooler.

  Eva trailed her fingers along the handrail. Her grandfather had stood here, perhaps even touching the same piece of wood, staring out at the same tropical gardens, which must have seemed a million miles away from the busy cities and steamy jungles he’d been working in. He, too, had climbed the highly polished teak staircase, which rose elegantly from the foyer to open out at the top like a tulip, forming a gallery from which you could promenade all the way around and gaze down into the foyer, where there was a Victorian fireplace twice as tall as Eva. He had stayed in one of these high-ceilinged rooms with disused fireplaces, maybe her room? The thought made her spine tingle. She didn’t think she had ever felt so close to him. And the little chinthe was still safely tucked in her bag. He was on quite a journey too, though it wasn’t his first. She thought of her grandfather in the jungle. Had he carried the chinthe with him when he went to war?

  It was 2 p.m. She returned to her room, picked up her wide-brimmed hat and her new colourful Shan bag and left the hotel, the slip of paper in her hand, along with a road map provided at reception. The house that had been Maya’s family retreat was less than ten minutes’ walk away, the receptionist had told her, and now she was so close, Eva wanted to take it slowly.

  She found the house on a dusty road at the top of a slight incline, its entrance framed by bamboo fencing wound with frangipani. She paused just for a moment to drink in the scent, which was so rich she almost felt dizzy, and made her way up the wide driveway. It was another traditional house but grander than the one in Mandalay. Built of teak and intricately patterned bamboo, it was made up of two storeys, the upper having a wide verandah which swept right around the house. There was so much wood. Even the roof was constructed with wooden tiles and
the panelled door was framed by bougainvillea, which the Burmese called the paper tree, as her driver had informed her this morning on the way here.

  Deep breath. Eva lifted the brass door knocker and let it fall. The sound seemed to reverberate around the walls of the house, shattering the air of tranquillity. In more ways than one, she thought ruefully.

  A man opened the door. He was in his mid-thirties, with the dark hair of the Burmese, but with the features and height – he must be six feet tall – of a Westerner. Anglo-Burmese perhaps; Myanmar was a country of mixed races and influences: Japan, China, Thailand, India and Britain, for starters. He was clean-shaven, his skin a shade of dark olive.

  Eva licked her dry lips. ‘Hello.’ She smiled. ‘Do you speak English?’

  ‘Of course.’ He smiled back at her and his rather sharpboned features were transformed. His accent was European, his tone soft and low.

  She straightened her shoulders. ‘I’m looking for the family of Daw Moe Mya,’ she said. ‘Do they live here, by any chance?’

  He eyed her curiously, with just a hint of suspicion now. ‘Why are you looking for them?’

  A question for a question. Fair enough, she supposed. ‘I have a message,’ she said. ‘For Daw Moe Mya, if she is still alive.’ It still seemed so unlikely, but somehow Eva couldn’t help trusting her grandfather’s intuition; he had rarely been proved wrong.

  The man frowned, calmly scrutinising her from hat to toe. He seemed relaxed, she found herself thinking, but ready to pounce if necessary.

  Eva fidgeted uncomfortably under his gaze. ‘Does she live here?’ she repeated. ‘May I speak with her?’

  He bowed his head slightly. ‘My grandmother is old,’ he said.

  So she was alive! Grandpa, bless him, had been right. Eva wished she could tell him this instant. See the expression on his face when he heard the news … ‘That’s wonderful!’ She beamed at the man in the doorway.

  He raised dark eyebrows at her, a threat of a smile now touching the corners of his full mouth. ‘It is?’

  ‘Yes, it is. Not that she’s old, of course, but that she’s still …’ She trailed off under his stare. ‘I’ve come a long way,’ she explained. ‘From England.’

  ‘England?’ He blinked at her as if he expected her to break into a song-and-dance routine. He was wearing a short-sleeved, dove-grey shirt, and the traditional male longyi in a sage green and black check knotted at the front. And it was funny, but, as she’d already observed since she’d arrived in Myanmar, the effect was surprisingly macho.

  ‘Yes. And I’ve come especially to see her.’ Eva stood her ground.

  ‘And who …’ he said, ‘are you?’

  Ah. Here we go, she thought. Another deep breath. ‘I’m the granddaughter of Lawrence Fox,’ she said.

  His eyes flickered. She realised that he had heard the name. Unlike most of the Burmese whose eyes were dark brown, sometimes almost black, his eyes were green, and with his dark hair and skin the effect was quite dramatic. But if he was surprised at her disclosure, he hid it well. He hesitated but then seemed to come to a decision. ‘You may come in,’ he said, his tone more guarded. ‘I will see if my grandmother wishes to speak with you. But you must not stay long. Please,’ and his eyes met hers, ‘she is very frail.’

  Alleluia, she thought. She was in and, ‘I won’t tire her,’ she promised. But she wondered, was he just being protective? Or did he know their grandparents’ story and resent what had happened between them all those years ago? What was more important, and rather scary, was that she was about to meet her, at last. Maya, the woman her grandfather had always loved.

  The white entrance hall was open and airy and according to the custom, Eva slipped off her black Burmese slippers before following him into the next room. In the centre was a magnificent polished teak table. Eva couldn’t help but reach out to touch its smooth and glossy surface, though as she did so, she caught him casting a probing glance her way. Around the table were several ladder-backed chairs, also beautifully made. On the far side of the room was a platform with bluetiled walls and a shrine, placed high on the far wall. On it, looking down on the room below, was a small intricately carved Buddha and a vase of fresh flowers, their scent drifting through the air.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘Please sit.’ He gave her another assessing glance and in one fluid movement, turned and was gone from the room.

  Eva sat. On the side wall were some photographs and she strained to see. A couple – presumably a King and Queen – seated on royal thrones. They looked very grand.

  A few moments later, she heard the lightest of footsteps. She looked up. An old Burmese lady stood framed in the doorway. She was very tiny and her hair was white, but still, she held herself erect.

  Maya.

  Eva jumped to her feet. How would she be received? She hesitated for a moment, but Maya was already moving towards her, arms outstretched, her brown milky eyes filled with an expression of excitement and disbelief.

  ‘Lawrence’s granddaughter?’ she breathed. ‘But, yes. Look at you. You must be.’ She seemed quite overcome.

  ‘Yes. My name is Eva.’

  Her grandson materialised from behind his grandmother and offered his arm, but the old lady grasped Eva’s arms instead and pulled her into a close embrace. ‘Eva …’ she murmured. ‘Eva.’

  She smelt of oil and coconut and her grip was intense for such an old lady. My grandfather’s lover, Eva thought, closing her eyes for a second. His Burmese lover. She didn’t know why, but she was surprised that Maya spoke such fluent English. She’d known that the family were well-educated, cultured and well-off by Burmese standards. Even so …

  Maya drew away and looked into her face, deep into her eyes as if she could look much further. With dry fingertips she traced a pattern over Eva’s cheekbones. ‘The shape of your face,’ she murmured. ‘It makes me remember …’

  My grandfather. Eva had never thought they looked alike, but the family resemblance must be there, reminding Maya of what she had lost. But had she lost him? Or had she chosen to give him up? That, among other things, was what Eva intended to discover.

  At last, Maya released her. ‘Bring tea.’ She clapped her hands. ‘We must sit.’

  Her grandson called out to someone in the far reaches of the house and Maya indicated to Eva that she should sit down again. The old lady was still smiling. There was no doubt that she was pleased to see her. Eva felt the relief wash over her. She wouldn’t think about her mother and her grandmother, Helen, and whatever loyalties she should feel towards them, not now. First, she wanted to understand.

  ‘You have come from England to see us?’ Maya asked, her old eyes incredulous in her creased face. ‘After all these years?’

  ‘Yes. My grandfather asked me to bring something here for you.’ Eva fumbled in her bag.

  ‘He is still alive?’ Maya’s face lit up and for a moment she looked as eager as a girl. ‘Lawrence is still alive?’ She was holding on tight to the sides of her chair, her tiny body tense as a coiled spring. Slowly, she relaxed. ‘I thought so,’ she murmured. ‘But I could not be sure.’

  Just like Grandpa, Eva thought. They were as intuitive as each other. ‘He certainly is.’ With a flourish, Eva produced the decorative teak chinthe from her bag. She had wrapped him in tissue paper but his head and mane had escaped its confines. ‘And he thought it was about time this little one came home.’ Gently, she unwrapped the rest of him. Placed him on the table in front of her.

  Maya and her grandson gasped simultaneously as they stared at the chinthe. The sight of it seemed to have an extraordinary effect on them both.

  ‘Ah!’ Maya’s eyes filled with tears and she murmured something in Burmese. ‘Lawrence,’ she said softly. ‘I knew, I knew.’

  Eva was moved. She wasn’t sure precisely what it was that Maya knew, but it was blindingly obvious that this woman had felt the same about her grandfather as he had felt about her. But if so … It seemed so wrong that they hadn�
�t stayed together. What could be the reason? Eva glanced at Maya’s grandson but he continued to stare at the chinthe as if still in shock. Had he known of its existence? She assumed so. Was he simply surprised that she had brought it back?

  Maya must have married after Eva’s grandfather had left Burma, Eva realised. She’d had a child, the mother or father of this man, her grandson. And that child must have married a Westerner for him to look as he did. Tall, green-eyed … A wing of his dark hair kept flopping on to his forehead, and he swept it away in an irritated gesture with the back of his hand. Did he know how Lawrence and Maya had felt about one another? How could anyone not know when the emotions were written so clearly on his grandmother’s face?

  He reached forwards, scooped up the chinthe in one brown hand and frowned, turning it from left to right to examine it. She noticed his long fingers and short square nails. ‘It seems undamaged,’ he said. ‘I do not think it has been tampered with.’ With a swift glance at his grandmother, he got to his feet and took the chinthe to the other side of the room, where he got something out of a drawer.

  He had his back to her, so Eva couldn’t see. But … Tampered with? She bridled. ‘My grandfather has looked after it.’ She addressed Maya. ‘He cherished your gift,’ she assured her.

  ‘Of course.’ Maya bowed her head. ‘Thank you, my dear child. Ramon …’ she remonstrated.

  With a nod, he came back, replaced the chinthe on the table. But he didn’t sit down.

  ‘So now he can be reunited with his twin.’ Eva looked around the room. Where did they keep the other one? She would have expected it to be guarding the shrine. ‘To restore harmony.’ That was what her grandfather had wanted. That was how he had said it must be.

  Maya and her grandson exchanged a look.

  ‘Isn’t that the belief?’ Eva asked.

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Maya laid a gentle hand on her arm. Her skin was thin and papery but her hand was warm. ‘But you see, Eva, it is not so simple.’

  Her grandson muttered what sounded like a curse in his native language. He paced over to the other side of the room and then turned back to her. ‘You brought this in your luggage from England?’ he demanded.