by Di Morrissey
‘He found this dealer and got the kammavaca for the princess at a low price by promising to write an article about him. Ferguson sounds pretty ordinary to me, but Andrew just sounds wonderful. Listen to this last part of the letter,’ said Natalie.
While one might not grasp the intricacies of the Buddhist faith straight away, there is no doubt that the Burmese idols, pagodas and stupas are magnificent. Perhaps it is the utter richness of this land, with its golden temples, its lush countryside; its wealth and its gentle people; that makes our men think that they have the right to casually plunder. But I know this is dreadfully wrong. Indeed, I think that in times to come, we British will be criticised for our destruction of ancient monuments, the heedless trampling of traditions and the outright stealing of precious artefacts.
I am intrigued by the writing on this kammavaca, a beautiful curling script, but what it says is anybody’s guess. I shall ask the princess more about it when I surprise her with its return. I know it will mean a lot to her, but truly dear sister, it means a lot to me as well. In all my time here in this very special country, I have been treated with respect, friendship and generosity- and not just because I’m British! I have met some good people here, Burmese as well as colonial chaps, and I feel affection for this lovely golden land. So if I can do one right thing for this country and restore the kammavaca to the princess, maybe I’ll gain merit of my own. I just feel it so much the right and proper thing to do and will give me much pleasure and peace of mind.
However, before I return to Rangoon, I want to visit the Shan people and then go on to visit the primitive Naga people on the Indian border. Truly this is a country of many peoples with their own customs, habits and food – all most beguiling.
I do miss our chats Florrie. I feel very sure that when we do meet on whatever distant shore, you and I shall pick up where we left off, in Mother’s warm kitchen that rainy night before we parted company and you left to go to Australia.
Please give my best wishes to Wally and the children.
Love from your brother,
Andrew
Mark took the paper from Natalie and read the whole letter. Then he folded the pages up, with its neat, closely written lines, and looked at Natalie. ‘Interesting. I wouldn’t say it was a sad letter. But it’s intriguing stuff. Do you think it was the start of a beautiful romance between the princess and your uncle? I suppose we’ll never know. And that thing your uncle bought for her. Do you think she was pleased to get it back?’
Natalie shook her head. ‘Returning it meant so much to him and yet he never gave it back to her. Isn’t that strange?’ ‘How do you know?’ asked Mark. ‘Because I have it, Mark. It was in Great Granny
Florence’s things. Mum nearly threw it out. It’s in the desk.’
‘You’re kidding! You brought it home from the farm?’ Mark leapt up and went to the desk they shared and picked up the little teak box. ‘It sounds like something unusual.’
He carefully unfolded the illustrated manuscript. He squinted at the strange curling script on the back.
‘Wonder what all this is about?’ said Mark.
‘According to Andrew’s letter, it’s religious – scriptures or prayers by the sound of it.’
‘How old would this be?’
‘I’ve got no idea. The letter says it was a gift to the king, but I don’t know anything about the kings of Burma or when they ruled. I could Google it.’
‘What are you going to do with it now?’
‘What do you mean? I guess I could hang it on the wall or display it somehow. It’s special,’ said Natalie thoughtfully.
‘Could be worth a few dollars.’
‘Mark! I wouldn’t sell it. It’s been in the family all this time.’
‘Sitting in a shed!’
‘I wonder how Great Granny Florence got it? He must have given it to her.’
‘Why would Andrew have given it to his sister when he was so keen to return it to the princess?’ said Mark.
‘It’s a bit of a puzzle that it never got back to its rightful owner. He was certainly passionate about returning it,’ said Natalie, carefully folding the little kammavaca back into shape and slipping it into its narrow box.
‘It looks more like the sort of thing you see in a museum or a church, well, a temple.’
‘I like it. Maybe I should look at getting it framed. A family heirloom.’
‘Nat, it’s not your family treasure. It belonged to some princess in Burma!’ Mark said with a laugh.
‘True. Okay. I’ve had enough letter reading for tonight. My mind is overloaded.’
Mark reached for her. ‘Let me distract you.’
Natalie curled into his arms. ‘I do miss you. How much longer, Mark?’
‘Sweetheart, it’s hardly been any time. Hang in there. I’m really proud of you.’
Natalie rested her head on Mark’s shoulder and closed her eyes. As she lay in his warm embrace, her thoughts drifted back to the odd curio she had found. She could feel that Mark had fallen asleep. So she slid from his arms as gently as she could, and padded quietly across the room to her desk. She took out the box and unfolded the manuscript. She bent closer to study the little illustrations. A musty smell, not unpleasant, vaguely citrusy, clung to the cloth. She stared at a picture of a little white elephant standing in a jungle. Suddenly there was a flash of light from the painted forest. Or was it from the jewelled headpiece of the elephant? Natalie shut her eyes and when she opened them she realised it was merely the desklight catching specks of gold paint.
But in that moment, she’d felt as if she had been standing in that jungle clearing.
It was such a strong sensation that she decided that she had to find out what had stopped her great-great-uncle from returning this odd artefact to its rightful owner.
MARK PULLED INTO THE driveway and before he could get Adam out of his car seat, Charlotte jumped from the car.
‘There’s Mummy!’
‘What?’ Mark scooped up Adam as Charlotte ran down the footpath towards Natalie who was coming towards them, dragging two narrow wooden doors behind her. A scarf covered her hair and her face and hands were splattered in paint.
‘Be careful, Charlotte. Don’t run onto the road,’ called Natalie. ‘How was your swimming class?’
‘Daddy said I am really good! I went under the water today. What’s that?’ Charlotte demanded.
‘You are a clever girl, aren’t you? Mark, can you help me drag this lot inside?’
Natalie dropped the wood and waved to Adam as Mark came up and asked, ‘What are you doing? What’s all that?’
‘It’s the council clean-up. Everyone is putting out stuff they don’t want. I found these.’
‘A couple of old doors? What do you want these for?’
‘You’ll see. There’s some more of them. Could you go and get them, please? They’re only a few houses down the street.’
Mark shook his head in amazement and handed Adam to her. ‘If you really want them, I’ll take these two inside and go and get them.’
‘Did you have a good time with Daddy at swimming, buttercup? I’m sure you impressed him. C’mon, it’s lunchtime.’
There was a thud as Mark dropped the other doors outside the kitchen and came inside. ‘They look like old wooden slatted pantry doors. Please don’t tell me you want them for our new kitchen?’
‘No, of course not. They’re going outside.’ Natalie handed Charlotte a cheese sandwich and tore up a piece of ham, which she gave to Adam. ‘I’m going to paint them blue, and hang them on either side of the front windows so that they’ll look like shutters. Maybe you could put hinges on them so that we can fold them over the window if we want to.’
Mark opened his mouth to object, but then went and looked again at the wooden doors. ‘Could work, I suppose. I’d have to cut them to size. Let me think about the best way of doing it.’
‘See. I thought it’d work. It’ll give the house a more cottagey look. I thought we c
ould build a little front porch and put some white wicker furniture on it. If we trimmed it with wooden fretwork we could paint it the same blue as the shutters and keep the rest white. I hate coming up the front path and seeing the front door in a blank wall. I want something more interesting.’
‘Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself? I suppose you’ll want a windowbox and a flowerbed in front as well.’
‘Yes, please. But that can wait until we’ve finished the renovations. I don’t want my flowers trampled by tradies. So, darling, how did you enjoy Charlotte’s swimming class?’
‘Charlotte’s no trouble at all. She’s going to be a good little swimmer, but keeping tabs on Adam in that play area is chaotic. He wants to climb onto the top of everything. Trying to stop him from hurting himself is hard work. I’m bushed,’ said Mark. He dropped into the still unrenovated wingback armchair and glanced at the pile of photos beside it. ‘Had any further thoughts about Uncle Andrew’s whatchamacallit? I’d like to know more about it.’
‘I haven’t had time to look into it. The kammavaca he called it.’
‘To me, the big mystery is why Andrew didn’t return it to the princess like he said he was going to in his letter. He sounded keen enough,’ said Mark.
‘I have no idea. I don’t know a thing about him,’ said Natalie.
‘I suppose he went back to England. You sure you don’t have any relatives back there? Your mum said her grandmother came from Brighton.’ Mark carefully picked up Andrew’s letter and skimmed through it again. ‘Sounds an interesting sort of a bloke. Was he a writer or a photographer? If those are his photos, they’re pretty good.’
‘Both, I guess. Maybe more a writer.’
‘What’s the Illustrated London News he talks about?’ asked Mark.
‘I asked Mum about that,’ said Natalie. ‘She said it was a cross between a newspaper and a magazine with long articles, a few photographs and fancy black and white artwork.’
‘I’m sure it’s on the net. Be interesting to read what he wrote and that might give you a clue about where he went,’ suggested Mark.
‘I’ll look it up when I get the chance. What are you up to now, great renovator?’
‘I can take a hint. I’m stripping the old wallpaper off the third bedroom.’ Mark grinned. ‘Or I can help you paint the furniture. Are you sure you want to paint those old chairs bright yellow?’
‘You mean the gorgeous bentwood chairs I found in that junk shop? They’ll be sensational in the breakfast nook. When you’re back at the mine, I’m getting out the sewing machine and making seat cushions for them.’
‘What about this chair? It is pretty comfortable. But I don’t like the material,’ said Mark, patting the arm of the chair she’d brought back from Steve’s.
‘I’ll get to it.’
It wasn’t until Mark had flown back to the mine and Natalie had the evenings to herself, after the children were in bed, that she found time to sit at her computer. Armed with a cup of tea, she began her search. She quickly discovered that it was worth the small price she’d paid to access the archives of the grand old Victorian newspaper, and it didn’t take long before she found herself getting lost in the fascinating maze of articles in the Illustrated London News. ‘The world’s first weekly illustrated newspaper,’ she read aloud to herself. ‘Started in 1842 and only ended in 2003 – more than one hundred and fifty years. It was no fly-by-night publication you were working for, Uncle Andrew!’ After a while, she had to stop herself from browsing through unrelated, but intriguing, articles and concentrate on what she was looking for.
When she eventually came across a story written by Andrew Hancock, she felt goosebumps rise on her skin. There it was, an article about Burma, accompanied by a stunning photograph of a strange beehive-shaped building. Beside the building stood a Burmese man leading a pony laden with packing cases. Natalie could see what a terrific picture it was. It immediately caught the eye and the composition of the photo hinted at an intriguing story.
Without drawing a breath, she read the article about an excavated eleventh-century stupa found by a farmer digging in his field. The article explained how the farmer had found several valuable gold artefacts inside the stupa, which led to a stampede as other farmers and locals attacked the many mounds in the area in the hope of unearthing more treasures. When a bronze Buddha figure was uncovered, there was a frenzy in the countryside. The Burmese Archaeological Society wanted to move the relics to a pagoda in Mandalay but the villagers objected.
Andrew wrote about the ensuing furore with a sensitive understanding of the villagers’ situation. He explained the role of religion in Burmese society, the people’s belief in miracles and manifestations of the supernatural. He painted a fascinating picture of the observances of people who believed that their donations, prayers, pilgrimages and daily worship would ensure that prayers were not only answered but earned them merit towards the next, and presumably better, life. Eventually, Andrew reported, a compromise had been reached between the Burmese Archaeological Society and the locals and the village site became a new place of worship, bringing pilgrims and prosperity to the villagers.
Natalie liked Andrew’s writing, because although it was respectful, it was also tinged with a faint, dry sense of humour.
She returned to the table of contents on the database and found another story by Andrew called ‘Saviour of Sacred Art: Looters Foiled in Lost Kingdom Artefacts’.
Heading the story was a dramatic photo of a rotund and, Natalie thought, florid-looking man dressed in billowing shorts, a matching tailored shirt with many pockets, a sola topee on his head and a ridiculous pincenez jammed onto his nose. His expression was one of smug self-satisfaction; his pose studied nonchalance. He stood at the entrance to a temple. At his feet were some carved stone statues. Beneath the picture a caption read:
Scottish art historian Ian Ferguson has spent more than twenty years in the Far East unearthing ancient relics from temples in India, Ceylon and Burma. He believes that it is his duty to retrieve and relocate these objects to museums in the United Kingdom and other parts of the world for safekeeping before ‘neglect by locals, the creeping jungle, weather and animals destroy these valuable religious curiosities’.
While the Scotsman was the focal point of the picture, the photographer had also captured a figure crouching beside the entrance to the temple. Natalie guessed he was a local man, probably hired to act as a bearer or porter. He squatted on his haunches, his bare feet visible beneath his long sarong, his head resting on one hand as he waited. The expression on his face as he watched the white man strike his pose was clearly visible in the bright sun. To Natalie it looked like disdain and dismay, or perhaps sadness, and it gave quite a different interpretation to the photo.
This must be the Scot who cheated the princess. He looks like a pompous idiot, thought Natalie.
After refilling her teacup she went back to the computer and continued searching through the archives until she found Andrew Hancock again. This time there was a photograph of him under the heading, ‘Demise of a Loyal Correspondent in Far-Off Jungle’.
Natalie stared at the formal portrait of the fair-haired man in a starched high collar and tie. He had a long face, deep-set eyes and voluptuous lips. He wore a serious expression for the camera. He seemed to be staring directly at her.
‘Hello, Uncle Andrew,’ she said softly. Slowly she read on as the paper reported the death of its intrepid correspondent:
Mr Andrew Hancock, our highly respected correspondent, was killed by tribesmen in a remote district of Upper Burma while covering a story for this publication about the anti-British rebels in the region. Mr Hancock was an old Burma hand, a noted photographer as well as writer on Burmese and Indian affairs in the years before the War. He had returned to Burma after serving in Flanders.
Mr Hancock was born in England, and first visited India, Singapore and Burma as a young man travelling just ‘with a camera, a notebook and a spirit of curiosity’. He ass
erted that Burma has been one of the most intriguing centres of Buddhist learning and worship for many thousands of years, and he also frequently wrote that Burma’s greatest asset is the warmth of its friendly peoples. It is tragic that a country of which he was so fond should be the place of his death.
His fascinating stories and renowned photography skills were always welcomed by the readers of this publication.
‘Killed!’ Natalie looked around in shock, wishing Mark was there to share this news. She searched the website to see if there were anymore references to Andrew but nothing came up. She tried Googling him but she could find no more information. She glanced at her watch but realised that it was too late to ring Mark. She would have to wait to tell him about her discoveries.
Natalie opened the shoebox of photographs and studied them more closely. Uncle Andrew was a superb photographer. She looked at each photo, thinking how strange and mysterious the landscape seemed. Street scenes and expanses of river, a busy harbour and some grand old buildings seemed less exotic than the dozens of pictures of temples. She turned one over and found a neatly pencilled place name. It was quite faded but she could make out what it said: Mrauk-U.
‘So, that explains how Uncle Andrew’s thing ended up with your mother. After he was killed his effects must have been sent on to your great-grandmother, Florence, as his closest relative. Now that you’ve solved that mystery, Nat, what are you going to do this weekend?’ Mark was matter-of-fact when Natalie phoned him to tell him what she had found out.
‘I heard about a little community market out in the hinterland. Thought it might be a bit of an outing for the kids. They have pony rides and bric-a-brac and local produce.’
‘Bric-a-brac, magic words for my girl. Looking for something for the house? You know I even wish I was going. Better than here. Days all blur together.’
‘I wish you were here, too. Charlotte and Adam really miss you,’ said Natalie.
‘Yeah,’ Mark said sighing. ‘I suppose it’ll be worth it in the end.’
‘Mark, it will be wonderful when all the renos are finished. We’ll have a beautiful house to raise the kids in, far better than we ever imagined. The house will be big enough; we won’t have to extend it, and we’ll never have to move again. We’ll be sitting pretty. I know this situation with you so far away isn’t ideal, but it’s the best option.’