Fields of Gold

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Ah, now, that’s where you’re wrong, Rally.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Bryant was the least ruffian-like of these men, but he looked suddenly more intimidating than the rest of them. Until now he’d always seemed to hide his build beneath his tailored suits. Now he stood before Rally, dark, brooding, in shirtsleeves rolled up. He had to be well over six foot, like his stupid son; was that what this was all about? Rally’s suspicions were confirmed as Bryant began to explain.

  ‘My son tells me you tried to teach him a lesson the other day,’ Bryant replied, his voice even but threatening.

  ‘I simply gave him a short lesson in responsibility. You should be thanking me, Bryant. Your lad’s been acting reckless and I thought it timely to remind him of his commitments. I did what you should have done months ago.’ He regretted that final barb; had forgotten that he didn’t have his meaty minders to protect him and suspected Bryant hadn’t gone to this trouble to simply offer a warning. Rally’s insides, which had just moments ago felt hard and twisted with fear, now felt as though they’d turned liquid. He’d seen it many times before when he’d had to teach someone a lesson; grown men often wetting themselves – or worse – in fright.

  ‘… I’m sure you understand,’ Bryant finished.

  ‘What, I …’ He had no idea what the man had just said. He tried to be reasonable. ‘Listen, Bryant, your son owes me money, fair and square. You surely appreciate that a man must pay his dues.’

  ‘Oh, I do. How much does he owe you?’

  Rally hadn’t expected this. He hesitated, thought about saying twenty pounds but Bryant was surely no fool. He decided to cut his losses and hope to get out of this dangerous situation in one piece. ‘Forget it,’ he said, pasting on his face the friendliest smile he could, frozen from fear but also the harsh wind. ‘He can pay it when he can … and even in instalments if he wants.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s all right. I promise … no skin off my nose. We don’t need trouble over this, Bryant.’ He looked around and found stony glares from the darkened faces of the sentinels guarding him in a wide arc. ‘Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’

  ‘You see, I wish I could,’ Bryant replied, and Rally felt as though a flock of birds had just found themselves trapped inside his body, fluttering around and bashing against his heart, his lungs. There was suddenly no breath, even though he was sure he was sucking in air. Bryant continued. ‘You see, I do agree with you that my son should pay his dues. But in his absence I will cover the debt. Jack can owe me instead.’ Rally watched Bryant reach into his pocket and pull out what looked to be a wad of notes. ‘Tell me how much he owes you.’

  For the first time since he’d arrived at the mine, Rally felt a glimmer of hope. He saw the money, Bryant’s thumb poised over it to roll off the pounds. Perhaps he might just leave with only his pride injured. He promised himself that if he got out of here, he would head back to London for a while. He hated the bloody miners! He imagined himself ordering a pint of Courage at The Lamb and Flag in Covent Garden and smiling to himself as he took his first sip. Fuck Jack Bryant! Well, he’d take Bryant senior’s money. So long as people paid, Rally assured himself, he would always be reasonable.

  ‘Fourteen pounds is what’s owed,’ he said clearly, his confidence rising like the cold breath steaming from his mouth.

  ‘Fourteen,’ Bryant repeated, peeling off some notes. ‘Let’s call it fifteen. That will cover the interest on the debt.’

  Rally kept his expression even. ‘That’s fair.’

  ‘I’m a fair man.’

  Rally took the money, didn’t count it – didn’t even look at it – and plunged it into his jacket pocket. ‘We’ll call that settled, then. We could have done this over a beer, Bryant. No need to —’

  ‘Not really. You see there’s the small matter of the threat to my wife for us to deal with. I’ve covered my son’s debt, Rally, and now I’m going to exact the debt you owe me.’

  ‘What?’ Rally felt as though all his blood had just drained into his toes. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Let me spell it out, then. Jack told me everything. I’ve checked the facts, too. George Thomas won’t work for a while, maybe not again. You had particular things to say about the South Crofty miners. I was one of those.’ He smiled in the candlelight and it looked deeply sinister, his expression like one you might find on a mask. There was nothing sincere in it. ‘I think you’re the barbarian, Rally.’

  Rally reached for excuses, but nothing came; words failed him, frightened away by the threat in Bryant’s dark eyes.

  ‘Look, Charles …’

  ‘Don’t talk to me as though you know me. If you did, you’d know that my wife is kind and sweet. She is good to everyone. Unlike you, she cares for the community and gives away much of the money that I earn, hides it through anonymous donations to the church, to the various mining charities. My Elizabeth is one of the world’s good people and does not deserve the stench of so much as your shadow falling upon her.’

  ‘It was just to frighten him. I didn’t mean anything by it, Bryant. I —’

  ‘Oh, but you did. You told Jack you were a man of your word so I have no doubt that you made an open threat to my wife and now I will make you pay for that.’

  ‘What? Wait!’ Rally screamed as Bryant nodded to the men. The miners closed in on him.

  ‘This is how it feels, Rally. This is what you pay your animals to do to helpless people, sucked into your gambling houses.’

  Rally strained to look over his shoulder as he was dragged away. ‘Bryant, wait! Listen to me. Please.’

  ‘George has five children, Rally. You have none, which I suppose is a small blessing for the world.’

  The jabbering began. Rally could hear it issuing in a steady stream of fright; his lips forming words of beseechment that were falling on hardened, deafened ears.

  The men shoved him towards the cliff. He thought they were going to push him over it and that was when Walter Rally did let go, wetting his trousers as he’d witnessed many a frightened debtor do. They weren’t taking him to the edge of the cliff, he realised, but along its face, forcing him to stagger and stumble down the steps that had been cut into the rock face.

  His breath was shallow, coming too fast. He could see it smoking out before him. It was freezing up here but he couldn’t feel a thing at all. ‘Where are you taking me?’ he screamed.

  ‘Down to a place all too familiar for most of these boys, Rally. It’s a recent place of mass death so you’ll be in the company of the ghosts of men you’ve leeched off for years.’

  Rally surprised himself with a fresh vein of courage that bubbled up and found its voice. ‘When this is over, Bryant, I’ll come looking for you and that family of yours. And when I do I’ll start with your son and make you watch it all.’

  ‘My son is gone, no longer in Cornwall. His debt is paid to you too. You’re being taken to somewhere where no one will hear you scream. And when this is over, no one will even know where your body is.’

  ‘Body?’ Rally squeaked, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘Bryant.’

  Charles ignored the fresh shrieks, speaking calmly over them. ‘See you around, lads. Each of you has a grudge against this man – now’s your chance to act on it. I’m going to leave the money in the pre-arranged place. And you know I’m a man of my word.’

  Charles Bryant strode away from the ugly scene. Although his heart was heavier for his part in this event, he felt better knowing that the evil man had now been obliterated, fifteen of the Bryant family’s pounds rotting in his pocket.

  He banished hate from his mind, let it fill with grief instead at the loss of his son. He knew he would never see Jack again, and he regretted with every fibre his inability to tell the lad that he loved him and was proud of him, despite all of the shortcomings and undesirable behaviour. Charles Bryant knew he had no one to blame for the boy’s ways but himself; he hadn’t been much of a father. Jack was right.
Guilt had driven the father to unwittingly ignore his son and had now forced him to kill for him.

  Walter Rally’s body was never found. Levant had claimed one final soul to walk with its ghosts.

  8

  Through no fault of their own, Ned and Arabella found themselves cast onto the goodwill of others and finally cut adrift into the ocean of homelessness. Gently, Ned gave his sister a rose-coloured version of their situation during their final evening at The Strand, and Bella appeared to comprehend that both their parents had ‘gone to heaven’. Ned told her only that their father had died of a heart attack and their mother in her sleep of a broken heart. He knew his sister loved the romantic idea that their parents were deeply in love, so she would find some comfort in this story, he hoped, despite her tears. Whether she had yet grasped the reality that they now only had each other was anyone’s guess.

  Initially, the Presbyterian church did everything it could for the orphaned Scottish children, but as the days wore on and the generosity of various families waned, the Sinclairs found themselves with only one option – to be put into the ‘temporary care’ of an orphanage.

  Ned had loudly protested against being placed into the well-known SPG Orphanage for Boys while Bella went to its sister orphanage for girls. In fact, he refused to be separated from his sister, arguing passionately that they had already been through enough emotional turmoil in the last few weeks. His supporters – the general manager of the hotel, the deeply concerned Dr Fritz and various members of the European club – were not necessarily losing interest, but Ned understood that life for them must eventually go on. Finding a solution that gave these orphans a roof over their head, food in their belly and a chance to take stock of their situation was the priority.

  But Ned stuck to his insistence that Bella remain with him, for he couldn’t imagine what it might do to her to lose all her family in one swift stroke. As it was, she was already showing clear signs of unravelling. It was an impossible situation and in the end, it was Fraser – in his desperation to leave Rangoon but with a clear conscience – who suggested the non-denominational orphanage that had been set up ten years earlier by a group of do-gooder wives of various rice plantation owners. The orphanage had been hastily assembled in the burst of energy that had come with the women from Britain while they were still trying to feel useful and stamp their own mark on Rangoon. Now they had grown rich on their husbands’ profits and lost interest, and they had left the running of the orphanage to a man named Dr Brent.

  So, barely three weeks after their father’s accident and their mother’s subsequent suicide, the Sinclair children found themselves in the small, untidy settlement, surrounded by peepul trees, that was the All Burma Children’s Home. Here, nearly forty boys and girls found a bed, a roof and two meals daily, along with an education of sorts. Funding trickled in from expatriates – guilty fathers who had long ago abandoned Burmese mothers to return to Britain and marry an English bride – and the endeavours of the children themselves, who made baskets to sell in Rangoon city.

  There was no car to transport them this time. Their journey was made by horse and cart, which meant they arrived at the orphanage hot, dusty and parched. Bella did not let go of Ned’s hand the whole way. If not for his sister, Ned might have taken his chances and headed off alone to find work on the plantations.

  There were three main single-storey buildings and sundry small ones dotted around an area of a couple of acres. The trees were thick in the distance and Ned wondered whether it was the beginning of the jungle he’d heard about. The bungalows had crumbling verandahs and cracked stuccoed walls. Shuttered windows hung off their hinges and their peeling paint only added to the general dreariness. There had been some poor additions to the original architecture and the once simple elegance of the main grand bungalow was complicated by unnecessary pillars and an incongruous porch.

  A dozen or so youngsters streamed out to greet them with bright smiles, all jabbering in Burmese. They appeared to be around the ages of five to seven, Ned guessed, although there was one much older boy who hung back but still lifted his hand shyly in greeting. He smiled tentatively and Ned realised that, behind him, Bella was already waving to the boy. He was older than she was, from what Ned could tell, but younger than himself. Although he had black hair, the boy’s skin was the colour of milky coffee, marking him as not only different to his dark-skinned charges, but also markedly different to the Sinclairs.

  On the main verandah, a woman dressed in starched white garments done up to her neck shielded her eyes from the sun and waited for them to alight.

  ‘Mr Fraser? I’m Matron Brent.’

  ‘Ah, hello. Come on, then, Ned. Let’s get you and Bella introduced, shall we?’ Fraser said genially, although Ned could tell their escort was nervous, and keen to be gone. ‘Don’t worry about your things,’ he urged, as Ned helped Bella down, and then he switched into the local language, issuing orders to the driver. Ned forgot about the older boy, but the excited little ones accompanied them into the main building, laughing and singing as they went. Their trunks were back at the hotel for safekeeping until final arrangements could be made, and Ned had never felt more dislocated from his life. Suddenly nothing but the clothes they stood in and Bella’s hand felt familiar.

  He held that hand tightly now and looked around. Even in his nightmares, he couldn’t have imagined scenery more desolate. Almost anywhere in Britain, the pervading colour was green and the light was soft. Here he was scorched by an unforgiving sun in a sky bright enough to make a person wince but in air humid enough to make that same person droop to the brown earth. Only the foliage, dark and brooding green, suggested this place was alive. Everything else seemed in decay.

  The village’s name he couldn’t pronounce and had taken little notice of anyway. He had no idea where they were, but already he thought about leaving here just as soon as he could. But for now this motley clutch of formerly whitewashed bungalows offered Bella a sense of safety, if not comfort.

  Fraser threw a self-conscious glance at Ned as he led them towards Matron Brent.

  ‘I promise you will not be here long, Ned,’ he said over his shoulder.

  Ned held his tongue and focused on Mrs Brent.

  ‘Hello, Edward,’ she said. ‘And, Arabella, if I’m not mistaken. You may call me Matron.’

  Ned let out a small nervous laugh when Bella decided it was appropriate to curtsey to this po-faced woman. He wanted to yell out that they were not meant to be here.

  Instead he said, ‘Am I the eldest here?’ holding out his hand politely.

  She didn’t shake it but gave him a hard, brief smile that didn’t touch her eyes. ‘You are. But let me introduce you to Robbie.’ She looked around Ned’s shoulders and he took the opportunity to drag back the fringe of hair that had fallen across his eyes. He desperately wished he’d taken his mother up on her offer to trim it while they were still aboard the ship. Now he’d never again feel the soft touch of her fingers through his hair, the cool of her skin when her hand brushed against his forehead, or see the warmth of her smile. He forced the image of her face from his mind.

  ‘Come here, Robbie,’ Margaret Brent said and the older boy they’d noticed on their arrival edged his way before them.

  He was slim, and clearly of mixed blood. ‘Robbie is fifteen and he’s been with us the longest. I’m sure he’ll welcome some English friends.’

  Ned offered a hand and Robbie shook it, his genial dark eyes beaming with pleasure to match his wide, white smile. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Ned said.

  Bella followed suit.

  ‘You’re like a princess from one of the books I love, Arabella,’ Robbie breathed.

  Ned warmed instantly to Robbie, who couldn’t have said anything more appealing to his sister.

  ‘No one calls me that,’ she said, disarmingly. ‘I’m Bella to everyone except Ned, who calls me Bell.’

  Again Robbie’s face lit up. ‘Even more lovely.’

  ‘Well, now,�
�� Margaret Brent interrupted. ‘Children, off you go. Robbie, get them back to their basket weaving, will you? Edward, Arabella, Mr Fraser? Perhaps you’d follow me and we can introduce you to Dr Brent, who is very keen to welcome you. But let’s get you some water first. You must be thirsty? Nyunt!’

  A slim girl appeared. She was not tall but her movements were graceful beneath her threadbare clothes.

  ‘This is Nyunt. She has spent many years here and has stayed on to help us, particularly in the kitchens.’ They all returned the shy smile of the young woman approaching them. ‘She understands a little English but cannot respond so it’s best not to ask many questions. Perhaps you’d like to go with Nyunt to the kitchen for some refreshing water.’ She turned and spoke hurriedly in Burmese.

  ‘Mr Fraser, you may come with me. Dr Brent will be taking tea shortly.’

  Ned gladly disappeared into the cooler part of the bungalow with Nyunt, who smiled and gestured for them to follow.

  Not long after, he found himself ahead of the girls and lingered outside a slightly open door where he overheard part of a conversation between Fraser and a voice he assumed belong to Dr Brent.

  ‘Passports, any family documentation?’ a man asked.

  ‘None, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Come, come, Mr Fraser. This hapless woman brought her children across the oceans. She would not have been permitted to leave Britain without papers.’

  ‘I’m aware of that. But in our hurry we found nothing. They must be in her belongings somewhere and I will have them sent on.’

  ‘I can contact the hotel management myself, I’m sure,’ Brent replied dismissively. ‘Now, about the payment …’

  Ned heard Fraser sigh. ‘I am giving you this money, Dr Brent, to ensure that the Sinclairs are well taken care of until I can track down someone in Britain who will take full responsibility for them. Do we understand one another? They are not to be classed as children without means.’