‘I’ll get you a rickshaw,’ said Haskell, and soon Edwin was climbing into the little contraption, pedalled by a boy who could not have been more than twelve.
‘Take a couple of weeks to think about it,’ said Haskell. ‘If you want the apartment it will be waiting for you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Edwin, shaking his hand. ‘I’m obliged to you.’ And then, because it seemed the only thing to ask, he said, ‘Will you stay?’
‘Yes,’ said Haskell, although he looked melancholy. ‘This is my home.’ He raised a hand and walked slowly back under the archway into his factory, vanishing among the crowds of workers who thronged the courtyard.
5
London, August 1938
Edwin met Emilia’s parents a week before he asked her to marry him.
He had met her first in Hampstead library, beginning with a conversation in which it transpired that each believed the other to be a member of the library staff.
Once they had it all sorted out they parted, but he was hopeful of seeing the shy girl with fair hair again and was rewarded the following week. After a few weeks Edwin plucked up the courage to ask her to join him for a cup of coffee.
Edwin had reached the age of thirty without any romantic experience, and he was surprised at how straightforward it all seemed. Emilia was pretty and kind, if painfully shy, and he knew at once that he wanted to marry her. It was time to settle down. If he was ever aware of a lack of physical attraction between them he did not acknowledge it, not to himself and certainly not to her. They talked for hours about books and he could imagine them growing into old age together, in a little house lined with bookcases.
In passing she had mentioned that she was Jewish – she did not practise herself – and now, on the way to meet her parents, Edwin was tying himself in knots, worrying that they would disapprove of him and that he was on a hiding to nothing.
‘What is it?’ asked Emilia, seeing his anxious frown as they stepped down off the bus at the end of her road.
‘Oh – nothing.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, taking his arm. He noticed how pretty her hair looked, plaited back like that. ‘Mummy and Daddy will love you.’
‘I’d settle for like,’ said Edwin, squeezing her hand in the crook of his arm. ‘Let’s not get carried away.’
And of course her parents had been charming – friendly, kind, generous, and genuinely interested in the suitor their daughter had brought home. It was easy to see where Emilia had got her cleverness and her love of reading. The Rosens were academics and their house was crowded with books, paintings and unfamiliar objects.
‘My mother’s,’ said Mrs Rosen, seeing his eyes fall on the small menorah on the mantlepiece. ‘But we do not practise now.’ She had a faint accent, the last remnant of a childhood in Belarus.
Mr Rosen had poured Edwin a glass of wine and gently interrogated him about his life and his prospects. He asked probing questions about Edwin’s upbringing and seemed puzzled but gratified at the attachment that had formed between his daughter and this young teacher.
‘When do the Hoffmans arrive?’ asked Emilia as they ate lunch.
Her mother looked gloomy. ‘They were supposed to be in England by now. We have heard nothing from them.’
‘German friends,’ said her father to Edwin. ‘The windows of their shop were smashed a few months ago by fascists so they decided to bring the children to England.’
Later, much later, when the war had begun, Edwin thought to ask after the Hoffmans. ‘They never arrived,’ Mr Rosen told him, his shoulders now hunched with sadness and fear. ‘They must have been imprisoned – or worse. What a godawful time this is.’
After lunch, when Emilia and her mother had disappeared into the kitchen, her father turned to Edwin once again as he gestured to an armchair by the fire.
‘Well, young man – what does the future hold for you? What are your plans?’
‘I want to marry Emilia,’ said Edwin abruptly, flushing scarlet as he said it.
Mr Rosen stared at him, taken aback. ‘You do?’
‘Yes, sir. With your blessing, I hope.’
‘Well . . .’ He looked faintly surprised again, as if trying to unravel some mystery. ‘It’s a pleasant thing for a father to hear. But don’t you think it’s rather soon? You’ve only known each other a few months. There’s no harm in waiting, is there?’
Edwin shook his head. ‘I’m sure. I haven’t asked Emilia yet, of course – but I feel certain that this is the right time.’
Mr Rosen nodded. ‘Very well. You have my blessing. Ask her. Only . . .’ He stared hard at Edwin. ‘Look after her, won’t you? She’s a better person than you or I will ever be.’
‘Of course,’ said Edwin, ‘of course.’
The following week, walking on the Heath, Emilia accepted Edwin’s proposal. Like her father, she hesitated for a moment, holding Edwin’s gaze intently.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure!’ said Edwin. Wasn’t this what people were meant to do? Get married, settle down, have families? Wasn’t it expected? Wasn’t this the best way to quell the sense he had always had of not quite belonging?
‘Then I accept,’ said Emilia, squeezing his hand. ‘I know you’ll look after me.’
‘I will,’ said Edwin, and at that moment he had never meant anything more. ‘I will.’
6
Rangoon, November 1941
A month after his arrival in Rangoon, Edwin sat scribbling, still in the office at six o’clock, as Kate gathered her things to leave.
He looked a little more relaxed, she thought. He had spent time wandering around the city both with her and occasionally alone, and he talked with something approaching enthusiasm about the temples he had visited and the food he had tried. But his brow was often furrowed and he looked as though he carried a great weight much of the time, as he did now, peering down at the densely filled pages before him.
‘Why don’t you come to the party?’ said Kate impulsively. ‘There’s a St Andrew’s Day celebration tonight at the Scottish church.’
Edwin looked up and hesitated. ‘Will we be welcome?’ he said. ‘Not being Scottish, I mean.’
Kate laughed. ‘Of course. They do it every year. There are more Scots in Rangoon than you would believe, but they always invite the English and the Americans too. Come hell or high water, they have their party.’
‘Well, it sounds very jolly,’ said Edwin unconvincingly.
She smiled. ‘Do come. Really. You don’t have to stay all evening if you don’t want to. But it’s a good chance to meet some of the European community – quite a lot don’t live in Rangoon and just come into the city at this time of year. They’ll be so glad to see a new face.’
‘I’ll think about it . . .’
‘Oh, don’t – please just come. Meet me at the Sule Pagoda at seven and we can walk over there together, I know the way.’
Edwin looked as though he had deep misgivings, but said at last, ‘All right, then. See you there.’
*
The Scottish Presbyterian church had been built seventy years before to serve the needs of the growing foreign community and on this night it was filled with dancing Scots. The sound of bagpipe music spilled out from the doorway, where it mingled oddly with the smells of Burmese food cooking in the streets nearby.
‘I wonder what the locals think of this music,’ said Edwin over the din as they entered the crowded church.
‘They probably think it sounds like caterwauling!’ said Kate, waving at one or two people she knew. ‘Bit of an acquired taste, really, isn’t it?’
She introduced him to various acquaintances. ‘Mr Edwin Clear, just out from England, new entry at the Secretariat.’
‘Delighted to meet you,’ said Mrs Campbell, a well-built woman in a gold-trimmed tartan evening gown, with a gentle Edinburgh brogue. ‘This is my dear friend Mrs Hamilton, from Devon, and little Sam,’ she said, gesturing to the wom
an beside her, who cradled a large blond baby.
‘He’s a fine fellow,’ said Edwin, tweaking the baby’s toe. ‘Hello, Sam.’ The baby gurgled delightedly and bounced in his mother’s arms.
‘How are your schools, Miss Girton?’ enquired Mrs Hamilton.
‘Doing very well, thank you, Mrs Hamilton.’
‘It’s a great thing that we’ve been able to introduce some of the principles of British schooling.’
‘Well, that’s not exactly—’
‘I do like seeing those sweet little monks in their robes,’ said Mrs Hamilton with a chuckle. ‘The Church of England would be thrilled to attract such devout schoolboys.’
‘It’s an economic choice, rather than a matter of faith,’ said Mrs Campbell dismissively. ‘They don’t learn any decent subjects. Just chanting those funny poems over and over.’
‘Well, in fact . . .’ Kate began, and then closed her mouth firmly. ‘I suppose Sam will go to school in England?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Hamilton, jiggling the baby. ‘His two older brothers are at Eton and my husband was an Eton boy. It’s the sensible choice, really.’
Kate escaped as soon as she could, sweeping Edwin off to meet more people. For him it was rather an ordeal, but everyone he met was kind and he found himself drawn into conversation with a homesick Englishman with a glass eye who wanted to talk about pubs. He saw Kate greeting a young, ruddy-faced Scotsman in a kilt, who kissed her hand and led her onto the dance floor.
‘It’s so hard getting a decent pint out here,’ lamented the Englishman, with a wave that captured the subcontinent. ‘I dream of the places I used to go – the Lamb and Flag near Covent Garden, that was a favourite, and that marvellous place with the stained glass on Fleet Street – the Bell, is it?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know it,’ said Edwin apologetically, racking his brains to think of a London pub he had been to, but his new friend didn’t seem to need any input and was happy to ramble quietly on, spilling the warm, substandard beer in his glass as he reminisced.
Edwin watched Kate dancing with the young Scotsman. It was a fast reel and she hurtled across the floor with more enthusiasm than skill, flushed and laughing. He wondered if this was a boyfriend, but before long she was dancing with someone else, another tall fellow with dark hair and two left feet.
Eventually the pub bore found someone else to rhapsodise to and Edwin found himself talking to a procession of middle-aged women, who seemed delighted to have a new face in their midst.
‘Mr Clear, you must meet Mrs Dashwood, she’ll be so glad to see you. She has two marvellous daughters, where are they tonight?’
‘And Miss Peters, you must meet her, she’s just arrived from Aberdeen, lovely girl!’
They swirled around him, bringing friends and husbands over and processing a string of young women past him. It was at this point that Edwin, rather bemused by all the attention, suspected that his status as a widower had gone before him. It had happened in London; a voluble matron, on hearing he was widowed, would suddenly show great interest and drag over some poor girl she was trying to marry off.
The eligible young women of Rangoon were all charming, friendly girls, and while they were obviously pleased to have someone new to talk to, he realised he had little to fear from them. In the not-so-distant past it must have been very hard living somewhere like this if you were on the hunt for a husband, but the community now was big enough to allow matchmaking, and any girl who desperately wanted to be married could simply set sail for Bombay, or London, and try her luck elsewhere.
Feeling that he had done his duty, Edwin took his beer over to a quiet, dimly lit corner, where he sat for a while, glad to be alone.
He found himself nodding off and several times jerked his head up to find that a new dance had started. Finally, he was awoken by a nudge to his shoulder, as Kate appeared beside him, looking flushed.
‘Don’t you want to dance?’ she asked as she sat down.
He shook his head. ‘Not really a dancer, I’m afraid.’
They watched the swirling couples. ‘It’s not so bad,’ she said. ‘I just try to avoid treading on anyone’s toes and cling on for dear life.’
‘Who were those fellows you were dancing with?’
‘Oh, just friends,’ she said with a shrug. ‘I don’t know them well.’
She rubbed the waistband of her green silk dress and sighed. ‘I knew wearing this was a mistake. It’s too tight, isn’t it?’
‘I think you look very nice.’
‘The seamstresses find it hard to gauge European sizes as Burmese women are all so tiny. I feel like an elephant when they measure me. Lovely workmanship, though.’
The young Scotsman she had danced with first now materialised before her and bowed, his kilt flapping. ‘One more dance, Miss Girton?’
*
‘You’re getting better at this!’ said Hamish above the din, watching approvingly as she twirled in the right direction.
‘Do you think so? I need more practice really, classes or something.’
‘I’d offer to assist,’ he said, a smile crinkling his ruddy face, ‘but I’m leaving tomorrow.’
‘Leaving Rangoon?’
‘Aye.’
‘I thought you’d always lived here?’
‘I joined up last week.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Kate. Somehow all the men she danced with seemed to go off to war eventually. Hamish had almost kissed her once and she had supposed that eventually they would go to bed together, but now it would never happen. ‘Where are they sending you?’
‘India, first, for training. Then who knows?’
The music sped up and the bagpipes and the fiddles played on, the red-faced players stamping the floor.
This party had taken place every year for forty or fifty years, but there had been lonely Scotsmen in Burma for much longer, for one reason and another. The first had come a century or more before, seeking timber and oil, crossing the hot plains and climbing high into the rugged mountains. They had found oil and teak, and their fortunes besides, and many had stayed and made homes for themselves, from the Gulf of Martaban to the Chinese border.
The song finished with a thumping of feet on the floor and everyone cheered and raised glasses. Kate sagged into Hamish’s arms, feeling his laughter above her head – but something was wrong, for the thumping noise carried on and everyone stopped talking to listen intently to the distant thunder.
‘Is that . . .?’
‘Bombing,’ said Hamish quietly. ‘Yes, I think so.’
She pulled away from him and stood tensed, her head craned towards the sound. The gaps between the thuds grew longer, but always there was another and a murmur of conversation broke out. The musicians had put down their instruments and were talking excitedly to one another. The elderly master of ceremonies, Mr McLeod, now hurried to the stage.
‘Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. I think we must end the party there. It’s after midnight anyway.’
‘What was that?’ someone called.
‘I cannot say for sure,’ said McLeod, ‘but it sounded very much like bombing to me, as I’m sure it did to you.’
‘From Siam?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But I suggest you all take your families home and make yourselves safe. We’ll know more tomorrow. Go home – and God speed you all.’
The crowds began to disperse. Kate turned to Hamish.
‘Do you think that sound was really from Siam?’
‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘but it sounded very close. Too close.’
She nodded.
‘I must go,’ he said, looking around. ‘I need to get ready to leave.’
‘Of course,’ she said. He gave a little bow and then picked up her hand and kissed it.
‘Silly boy,’ she said and pushed his shoulder. ‘Go.’
‘It was very nice to see you,’ said Hamish. ‘I’m grateful that my last night as a civilian was spent dancing with a pre
tty girl. If I don’t see you again . . .’
‘Good luck,’ said Kate. ‘Be careful.’
She found Edwin sitting where she had left him. He looked even whiter than usual and was staring into the middle distance. A beer glass lay shattered on the floor beside him, the pooled liquid already attracting flies.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Yes, fine,’ he replied jerkily. ‘It was just . . . the bombs, you know.’
She sat down beside him and wondered if he was going to faint. ‘They were rather a shock.’
He cleared his throat. ‘My wife was killed in the bombing in London.’
Kate had not asked what had happened to her; it seemed too close, too personal. She might have been ill. But of course it was the war. Even in London, no one was safe.
‘There were hundreds of bombs,’ he said quietly. ‘That morning the whole of North London was burning, the air full of smoke . . .’
‘But you survived,’ said Kate.
‘I wasn’t there.’ He said it quickly, as though confessing to something dreadful. ‘I was away. I came back to find the house blown to bits.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh, Edwin – I’m sorry.’
He sank back in his seat, as though all the air was gone from him, and stared bleakly at her.
She wondered what his wife had been like – how long he’d known her and how he would survive without her. He sounded distraught still, scarred by what had happened. But there was more to it than that, she thought, as she watched his trembling hands.
She wanted to tell him that she was bitterly sorry for him and that she, too, had experienced the guilt that came with losing someone you loved, but the hosts were calling for the hall to be emptied and they joined the surge towards the door, emerging at last into the warm night.
‘Shall I escort you home?’ said Edwin, looking ill at ease. The thumping sound had stopped, and all that could be heard were the soft noises of the city.
‘No need, but we’re going the same way,’ said Kate. ‘Let’s get a rickshaw, I’m too tired to walk.’
The Long Journey Home Page 3