by Rosanna Ley
He sighed. ‘I kept something that didn’t belong to me,’ he said. ‘I didn’t find out the full truth when I should have done. And I never went back.’ He heaved himself up, took the plates over to the kitchen sink and then slowly lowered himself down again into the old rocking chair.
Eva went over to him and took his hand. It was trembling. His skin felt paper-thin and it was threaded with blue veins and massed with liver spots from all those years of living in the tropics. ‘You never went back to Burma?’ she guessed. Did he mean after her grandmother had died? Why should he have gone back after all that time?
He nodded.
‘And the truth?’
‘That’s what I would like you to find out, Eva, my dear,’ he said.
She stared at him.
‘I have an address.’ There was a blue manila folder on the table next to the rocking chair, and from this he extracted two slips of paper. ‘Two addresses,’ he said, handing them to Eva.
She looked at the scraps of paper. He must have had them a long time. They were written in a younger man’s handwriting and the paper was yellowing with age. Daw Moe Mya, she read. The same name, but a different address on each. Who was Daw Moe Mya?
‘It’s a long story, my dear,’ he said.
Eva put the pieces of paper down on the table and moved over to the stove. ‘I’ll make us some tea.’ She needed to keep a clear head. She filled her grandmother’s ancient black kettle, her thoughts buzzing. A long story? Hadn’t she heard all the stories about Burma?
She went back to sit by him. ‘You’d better start at the beginning,’ she said. ‘And tell me exactly what it is that you want me to do.’
‘I’m old, my dear,’ he said. He leaned forwards and adjusted the red-tasselled cushion behind him. ‘I’ve made mistakes. But perhaps it’s not fair to ask you to help me. That’s what your mother would say.’ He shot her a look from under his bushy white eyebrows.
‘I’m all grown up now, Grandpa.’ Eva twisted her daisy ring. Thought of the email she’d sent to her mother last night. It was sad that these days they mostly communicated that way. More than sad, it was heart-breaking. But sometimes the fissures in a relationship only grew wider and deeper with time. And that’s what seemed to have happened to theirs.
The kettle boiled and Eva got up to make the tea, using her grandmother’s old floral patterned teapot. She assembled the porcelain cups and saucers and brought the tray over to the table by the rocking chair where he sat, went back to stack the dishwasher and put the pan in to soak, before returning to pour. She had the feeling that her grandfather needed a bit of thinking time. And so did she.
‘What did you keep, Grandpa?’ she asked gently as she placed a cup on the table next to him. ‘What did you keep that didn’t belong to you?’
‘Get the chinthe,’ he whispered.
‘The chinthe?’ Perhaps his mind was wandering after all? But Eva knew what he was referring to. The dark and shiny decorative teak chinthe – a sort of mythical lion-like creature, which always stood on her grandfather’s bedside table – had been a feature of Eva’s childhood, a feature of all those stories of Burma.
Eva had grown up sandwiched between her mother’s flat and this yellow-stone, rambling house, between the gentleness of her grandfather’s care and the brittle grief of Rosemary, her mother. Eva’s grandmother Helen had been delicate, often tired, disliking noise and disruption. But her grandfather … He had picked her up from school and taken her on outings down to Chesil Beach and the Dorset sandstone cliffs, or off for muddy walks in the Vale. In the evenings they’d sat here in this kitchen and he’d made them mugs of hot chocolate and told her such stories … Tales of dark wood and darker mysteries. Of a land of scorching heat and drenching monsoons, of green paddy fields and golden temples, of wide lakes and steamy jungles. Those stories had become almost a part of her.
Eva went to fetch her grandfather’s beloved chinthe from the bedroom. More than anything else, this symbolised his time in Burma, she supposed. She picked it up, looked for a moment into its iridescent, red glass eyes. It was a lovely piece, small and delicately carved in an eighteenth-century style, it looked a bit like a wild lion with a jagged tasselled mane and a fierce snarling face. It had a sturdy body and was made, she knew, of the rich burnished teak that her grandfather used to work with back in the days before the war, when he lived in the teak camps with elephants, sending the great logs that had been felled tumbling into the Irrawaddy River.
‘Here he is.’ She put the chinthe on the table next to the tea tray. Ran her finger across the carved mane. He was a proud animal and she’d always liked him despite his apparent ferocity. ‘What is it that you want me to do, Grandpa?’ she asked again.
Her grandfather stared at the little chinthe for a few moments and then looked back at Eva. ‘It’s a personal quest, my darling.’ And to her horror his eyes filled with tears.
‘Grandpa?’
‘Those addresses I gave you,’ he said. ‘That’s where she used to live, before the war, you know.’
‘She?’
‘The person I want you to look for,’ he said. ‘I need you to find out the truth of what happened.’ He picked up the chinthe and held it gently in his hand. ‘There’s a promise I made many years ago, my darling Eva, that now I need you to keep.’
CHAPTER 4
Rosemary Newman read her daughter’s email with a growing sense of dread. Burma. Would that country never loosen the claw-like hold it seemed to have on her life? She shuddered. First her father, and now Eva. What was it about the place?
She slumped slightly in her seat, then straightened, clicked back to her inbox. She wouldn’t delete it, couldn’t delete it, and of course she’d answer it, later. Or maybe she’d phone Eva, which was much harder. Face to face had become harder still. Not that she’d ever intended it to be that way …
Her daughter had explained that her company were sending her over there, but Rosemary knew she was delighted to go. Her excitement was written between the lines as clearly as the words themselves. It’ll be so interesting to see the place after all Grandpa’s stories … Grandpa’s stories indeed. And a lot he hadn’t told her too.
Rosemary got to her feet and walked over to the window. She and Alec lived in Copenhagen, in a penthouse apartment in a residential borough just outside the old ramparts of the medieval city and the sweeping view of the city which was theirs to admire every day included the spires of Christiansborg Palace and City Hall. The people who lived here were justifiably proud of Copenhagen. It was a thriving and cultural city and it was kept immaculately clean. Heavens, thought Rosemary, the harbour was so unpolluted you could apparently swim in it, not that she had tried. The city boasted plenty of parks and green spaces, wide promenades and waterfronts, and the infrastructure of cycle lanes, metro and other social services helped maintain a pleasant lifestyle. Alec earned a good wage working as a project manager for a large financial institution, and although taxes were high, the rewards were good. Rosemary couldn’t complain. And it was hardly Alec’s fault that sometimes she wanted to scream …
The apartment was smartly furnished, modern, all clean lines and up-market furnishings. Stylish and tasteful. And, she thought, a million miles away from the house in which she’d grown up, in West Dorset. Her parents’ house, rambling both inside and out with its cubby holes, inglenook fireplace, winding stairs and bay windows looking out into the untameable garden. Her mother, Helen, had tried to keep it in check; they had even employed a gardener for a while. Helen and wild gardens were not a match made in heaven. But that garden, with its climbing roses, meandering paths, blowsy hydrangea bushes and pond with water lilies and frog spawn, would always go its own way.
Like Eva. Rosemary put a hand to her hair and tucked a few strands behind one ear. She kept it in a short, shaped bob these days, smarter, easier to control. Her daughter had always been headstrong. But Burma … It was almost more than she could bear. How much did Eva know?
&n
bsp; When Nick had been alive, they’d laughed about their wild daughter, teased one another about who she took after, as she climbed trees or galloped across the beach playing what she called ‘horsacs’, her thick dark hair streaming behind her in the wind. She was a proper tomboy, unable to sit still for a minute. More than anything she had loved to spend time with her grandfather up at the house, and he’d been a wild one too in his time. For a moment Rosemary felt the bitterness creeping up on her. But their closeness had been a blessing, she reminded herself, after it had happened.
Oh, Nick. When Nick was alive, Rosemary had been happy, blissfully happy. She used to laugh. Rosemary looked around the swish apartment, all chrome and beige, cream and leather. Original art from local exhibitions on the walls, cool wooden parquet flooring. She used to get up in the morning and sing while she was in the shower. If she sang in the shower now, Alec would probably think she’d lost her mind.
She went into the kitchen and plucked her navy blue apron from the drawer. It was such a nice kitchen and everything was where it should be. And she wasn’t unhappy. How could she be unhappy when Alec was such a good man who tried so hard? And really, she had everything she could ever need. Apart from your daughter, a small voice whispered back to her. Apart from your father. Apart from Nick.
She slipped the apron over her head and tied it behind her and round. This was a new apricot silk blouse and she didn’t want to get any stains on it.
It was just that back then it was a different sort of happiness. The sort that made you feel truly alive. The sort that had nothing to do with a comfortable home or money. And everything to do with love.
Rosemary reached up to get the Kilner jars down from the top cupboard, everything she didn’t use too often was kept there.
Back then, she’d had a job she enjoyed, working as a legal secretary to a friendly bunch at their local solicitors. And she had a daughter she loved – they had wanted to have more children but it just hadn’t happened for them. She lived close to the parents who had brought her into the world, with whom she got on well and who were always there for her. And she had a husband she adored.
On the drainer was a basket of sloes, small and plump from the rain. Rosemary had picked them this morning from the patch of wasteland behind their apartment building. It wasn’t a garden and it certainly wasn’t countryside. Even so, the white flowers were pretty in springtime and in autumn the berries clustered like bunches of tiny black grapes. More importantly, they reminded her of England. Of hedgerows and country lanes in Dorset. And inevitably of her life in Dorset, of Nick.
Rosemary sighed. The problem had been, of course, that Nick was her life. You couldn’t love like that more than once in a lifetime. And so when she lost that … Her house of cards had simply come crashing down. Which was what life was like, of course. Just when everything was going well, just when you thought you could relax and enjoy what it had to offer, that’s when life would hit you for six. Ouf. Rosemary could feel the pain right in her belly – just as she’d felt it that day.
‘Nick?’ She’d come home for lunch. Cheese on toast, she decided, as she was walking up the path. Then she’d clear up – she hadn’t had time that morning – before heading down to the supermarket to get a few bits and pieces before she picked Eva up from school. She only worked mornings, which was ideal, and in the holidays her parents were more than happy to step in, especially Dad. He adored his granddaughter, he seemed to have bucket-loads of patience and time for her. And Rosemary tried not to feel resentful. It was different when you were a grandparent, she reminded herself. You weren’t working, you welcomed the chance to give your grandchildren the time you hadn’t given your own kids. Perhaps she’d be the same …
‘Nick?’ He always came back for lunch unless he was seeing a client who lived some distance away. Nick’s workshop was only a few minutes round the corner. He designed and made stained glass for doors, windows, churches even. Beautiful stained glass that could recreate a bygone era, that could send an echo of the twenties or thirties in Art Nouveau or Deco geometrics and curves, that could send a warm amber glow into a hallway when the sun shone, a shaft of blue like a summer’s day, or even a spark of fire.
She went into the kitchen. ‘Nick?’ Dropped her bag.
He was lying, crumpled on the floor. He’d fallen. He was unconscious. ‘Christ, Nick.’
She could still see it, see him; the image was branded on her memory. Rosemary picked one of the berries up and rolled it between her forefinger and thumb. She still had a few spines lodged in her fingers – blackthorns were not kind to predators and she supposed she was a predator in a way. And they weren’t pleasant to eat raw, the taste was bitter and dry. But in gin … Sloe Gin at Christmas was Alec’s favourite. The longer you steeped the berries, the richer the drink; Rosemary still had some left from three years ago. By now, it would taste of almonds on the tongue.
She closed her eyes. Nick had died from a blood clot which stopped the flow of oxygen to his brain. He’d had a massive stroke. He wasn’t even forty. And Rosemary was left alone.
She realised that she was gripping the basket of sloes, white-knuckled. Breathe, Rosemary. The horror of it had never gone away. She had moved, unknowing, into some sort of dark place where she could survive, and she didn’t even know, now, where that place was, how she had got there or what had happened to the people around her.
Rosemary took her large colander from the low cupboard left of the sink and shook in the sloes, ensuring that all the fruit was good, that she removed anything that was beginning to rot. She turned on the tap to wash them.
She came out of that dark place when her father grabbed her by the arm one day when she’d come to pick up Eva. Rosemary worked full time now. They needed the money and, besides, work was a distraction. When she was typing up a legal document or speaking to clients on the phone, she didn’t have to think about what had happened. That she was now Rosemary Gatsby, widow. That her husband was dead. That, really, life should not have gone on.
‘What?’ Rosemary waited. Eva was still playing outside.
‘She’s just a child,’ her father said.
‘What do you mean? I know she’s a child.’ She frowned.
‘I mean that you’ve got to pull yourself together, Rosie.’ He put a hand on her arm. He was pleading with her.
She tried to tug her arm away, but he held fast. How could he possibly understand? How could anyone? Her world had no foundations anymore, no anchor. ‘All very well for you to say,’ she snapped. ‘Do you ever think what it’s like for me?’
He sighed, let her go. ‘All the time,’ he said. ‘All the time. But you’re her mother. It’s your job to think what it’s like for her.’
‘I don’t think I can do that job,’ she had told him. ‘Not anymore.’ At least not in the way he expected her to. Since the cards had fallen, there seemed to be little reason to do anything. Why bother to get up in the morning when there was no one beside you to turn to? Why bother to clean the house? Make dinner? Pay the bills? Eva was the only reason Rosemary dragged herself out of bed at seven-thirty. The reason she shopped and cooked. The reason she forced herself to function.
‘You’ve got to move on, Rosie,’ he told her, his blue eyes burning with the need to get it through to her. ‘It’s not easy. I know it’s not easy. But you’ve got to do it,– for her sake, if not for your own.’
Rosemary tried. But Eva was not a comfort. She was a responsibility, a worry, one that was no longer shared and enjoyed with the man she loved. How could Rosemary hope to give her a balanced and positive upbringing after this? How could she do it alone? The task, even with her parents to help her, seemed insurmountable, a mountain with only a goat-track to follow. And at the top? All she could see was a very long drop down to rock bottom.
The berries had drained and now Rosemary prepared the Kilner jars; they must be sterilised with boiling water. She filled the kettle and switched it on. Pressed her weight against the counter.
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br /> Eva was tearful and needy and this had stretched her jangled nerves to the absolute limit. Of course the child had lost her father. Yes, Rosemary, she told herself sternly, she’s lost something too. And at a vulnerable age when no one should have to experience such a loss, such a heart break, one she might never recover from, too. And she needs you. That was the thing, the certainty that hit her like an axe in the guts when she awoke from a fitful sleep every morning at dawn. She had to be two parents for Eva now. And the more her father reminded her of this fact, the more she cringed away from it. It was weak of her, she knew, but she simply couldn’t think where to begin.
The kettle boiled and Rosemary poured the water into the tall jars quickly, feeling the hot steam licking like flames at her hands, her wrists, dampening the cuffs of her silk blouse. When Eva hurt herself and ran to her … Rosemary felt herself pulling back, her arms half-lifting and then falling impotent to her sides. She shrank from holding her own daughter. Why? Was she scared of loving her too much? When Eva woke up at night and her tears pulled Rosemary away from her dreams and her memories – the only things that seemed to keep her sane – she bitterly resented the intrusion. She wanted to shout at her: Go to sleep. Let me be. Did these things make her a bad mother? She loved her daughter and yet she couldn’t love her, didn’t dare to love her, couldn’t risk being hurt that badly again.
Rosemary held everything back. She kept her distance. If she needed to, she walked away. And all that had become a part of her. She was now that woman. She couldn’t hold her own daughter and she couldn’t tell her she was safe. Because she wasn’t safe. Neither of them were safe. The cards had fallen. Their anchor was gone. Where was there for them to run? Not to each other, it seemed. Eva turned more and more to her grandfather for her hugs and kisses. And Rosemary? She simply battled on alone.
She pricked the ripe sloes with a fork to release the flavour and weighed them out equally, tipping them into the jars. She weighed out the sugar too and added that. Measured the gin. Sealed the jars. And so … Eva was going to Burma – of all places.