by Rosanna Ley
‘About a week or so ago, darling.’
‘And did she say anything? About anyone?’
‘Only that they were all well.’ Her mother shot her a look. ‘Have you heard from Ramon?’
‘He emails occasionally.’ Eva shrugged. ‘But I don’t encourage it. And I think he’s more or less given up.’ The last message had been three weeks ago. Three weeks and one day, to be precise. She had finally answered it last week, but she hadn’t told him very much. I’m fine. Working hard. Busy life … That sort of thing.
‘Why don’t you encourage it?’ Rosemary frowned.
Eva would have thought it was obvious. Her mother was sipping red wine and looked more contented than she’d ever seen her. She had grown out her neat blonde bob and wore her hair loose and free. She still looked stylish and elegant but was more likely, these days, to be found in a waxed jacket than a tailored one and green waterproof boots rather than calf leather and heels. She worked part-time in a local solicitor’s, but she also kept chickens and was growing organic veg in their rambling cottage garden.
It was late and Alec had already gone to bed, pleading an early works meeting the following morning, hence this conversation á deux. ‘He’ll never be able to retire,’ Rosemary had said as he went, a note of laughter in her voice. ‘There’s always some new project. I’ll have to drag him away kicking and screaming.’ But Alec had only laughed back at her and rumpled her hair. Things between them, Eva could see, had changed.
‘I don’t see the point,’ she said, elaborating, since her mother had raised an eyebrow and was clearly waiting for her to continue. ‘We should both be free to get on with our own lives.’ And she was getting on with her own life. Work kept her busy; it wasn’t easy to set up a new business and take the step of becoming self-employed.
Eva had emailed Ramon to tell him of her grandfather’s death. He could decide, she thought, whether or not to tell Maya. And he had a written a note of sympathy back. A week or so later, he had emailed to tell her that Khan Li and his corrupt associates had been arrested and would be charged. I thought you would like to know, he wrote. His business is to be wound up, he added. It has been exposed as a discredit to Myanmar. The way would be clear for reputable companies, like Ramon’s, to trade legitimately with the rest of the world and progress, Eva thought, without unfair competition. And she was glad for him. He dealt in new furniture, she in old, but their values had always been the same.
It had been a strangely formal email, cool and distant, so maybe he felt the same way as she did. Eva wasn’t sure she could deal with that sort of formal communication with him, as if they had never been lovers at all. He had big plans for his business, he wrote. As always. Big plans, thought Eva, but plans that didn’t include her. Hadn’t he said that because of his father he had a yearning for all things British? So why not include a fling with an English girl? She still had the little Buddha he had made for her; she would keep it forever. But as she’d told him before, a long-distance, email relationship was never going to work.
She had heard from Klaus too, that things had been taken care of on the European side. They had intercepted the crates and by the time Eva had tendered her resignation, he had passed on all relevant information about the Bristol Antiques Emporium to the authorities. Eva’s phone conversation with Jacqui soon after her grandfather’s death had not been an easy one.
‘You know what’s happened, I suppose?’ she had said. ‘I presume that’s why you’re leaving.’
‘I’d rather not say,’ Eva told her. The last thing she wanted was to get drawn into this sort of discussion. ‘But I wanted to let you know. If not face to face because of my grandfather’s death …’
‘I understand.’ And there was an empathy in Jacqui’s voice that she didn’t think she’d heard there before. ‘And I apologise, Eva,’ she said. ‘I had no idea of the extent of what was going on. I knew there was something. But by the time my suspicions grew …’ She sighed. ‘I would never have wanted to put you in danger.’
Eva believed her. Whether or not Leon had initiated a relationship with Jacqui Dryden because she owned the Emporium was not Eva’s concern. But Jacqui had been an honest antique dealer, of that she was sure.
These things will go on, Klaus wrote. All we can do is continue the fight, Eva. Less than a month later her friend Leanne had sent her a newspaper cutting reporting that the Emporium had closed down. And Leanne had done a bit more digging. Apparently Leon had been charged with handling stolen goods and illegal importing. And Jacqui … Eva did not know what had happened to Jacqui. She only hoped that she’d been able to start again.
But Eva, too, was continuing the fight in her own small way, for the future. She’d already formed GADA, the Genuine Antique Dealers Association, to support ethical trading in antiques, to create professional standards and to encourage dealers to buy and sell only genuine and authenticated pieces. This way, if they bought through dealers who belonged to the association, consumers could be sure, or as sure as possible, what they were getting for their money, with some sort of guarantee of authenticity, and with all available information provided about source, age, provenance and collection history.
Genuine dealers had already begun to show interest in GADA and Leanne, who had a background in marketing, was helping her spread the word. Hopefully, this would discourage outfits like Khan Li’s from trying to fob off their fake Buddhas and chinthes and from being able to sell them on as genuine artefacts of Burmese history. Whether it was misrepresentation or just plain forgery, such activities would be considered illegal, as was the theft of any object which could be considered part of a country’s heritage and cultural history. As far as Eva was concerned, GADA would strongly condemn any such action and would support law enforcement to forbid and eradicate it from the antiques trade.
Ramon and his passion for ethical standards and practice had started her on this pathway, she realised. And it had been reinforced by her other experiences in Myanmar. Eva wanted to bring the integrity and sense of history back into antiques. She wanted it to be a creditable and respected profession once again. She couldn’t do it single-handedly, but as time went on, the more people in the business who supported her ideals and joined her association, the more chance she would have of making it a reality. But this didn’t mean she no longer dealt with Asian artefacts. In fact the contact she’d made through Klaus did sometimes purchase antiques for her and she could always be sure of the provenance.
She thought of the replica chinthe Ramon had made out of his recycled ancient teak. That was a forgery too, of course. But she didn’t feel it was hypocritical. Sometimes, the end justified the means.
‘It was a healing journey, the one you made to Myanmar,’ her mother said thoughtfully.
‘Yes, you’re right.’ Though Eva hadn’t fully realised it at the time. It had been healing for her grandfather, who could now be at peace; for Eva, who had finally seen for herself the Burma of all those childhood stories; for Maya, who’d had her family legacy returned to her. And for Rosemary, who had found the strength to understand, forgive and let go.
Eva thought of the way her mother had held her the morning after her grandfather had died. Her mother. It had been a healing journey for the two of them too, because Eva was getting close to finding her again. And there was no one else, she thought, who could hold her quite that way.
*
In the workshop, Eva glanced up as a man entered, a cap pulled down over his head.
‘Morning,’ she called.
‘Morning,’ he replied.
She let him browse. Eva loved the fact that people wanted to look around the studio, watch the repairs in progress, run their hands over furniture lovingly restored and polished and hopefully sometimes wanted to buy. Her prices were competitive, the pieces were hand-picked and everything was restored after considerable research and with meticulous attention to detail.
‘I have something to sell.’ The voice cut into her reverie.
‘What is it?’ Though Eva didn’t generally make purchases from people who came into the shop. The best pieces, she had to say, were somewhat more elusive and hard to find.
‘A pair of chinthes.’
She gasped.
He stepped out of the shadows, came towards her, almost unrecognisable because of the hat.
Eva got to her feet, her polishing cloth still in her hand.
As he drew closer, she saw that he looked much the same, though more anglicised in that hat, black jeans and a leather jacket. He leant on the desk which she used as a counter. Raised a dark eyebrow. ‘They have very nice carving,’ he said. ‘And ruby eyes.’
‘Ramon,’ she breathed.
*
‘But why didn’t you tell me you were coming over to the UK?’ she asked him half an hour later when they were sitting in her office, a cafetière of coffee between them. She couldn’t stop staring at him, she was still getting over the shock.
‘I wanted to surprise you.’ He smiled.
‘You did that alright.’ She poured the coffee. Her hands were shaking and she hoped he wouldn’t notice. ‘How on earth did you find out my address?’
‘Easy.’ He shrugged. ‘You are Eva Gatsby and you come from this town in West Dorset, is that correct?’
‘Of course. But—’
‘I Googled “Gatsby” and a website came up. Gatsby’s Antique Restoration. Is this someone else, I ask myself. Or is this Eva? What are the chances?’
She laughed. ‘I suppose it was pretty obvious.’ She passed him his coffee. ‘But why are you here, Ramon?’
He took off the hat and laid it on the desk next to his coffee cup. ‘I told you I had big plans.’ He shot her a reproachful look.
‘The plans being …?’
‘To set up a sister company in Europe,’ he said. ‘I will keep the business in Mandalay. But I want to expand. Maybe even trade worldwide.’
‘As your father wanted to do,’ she murmured.
‘Exactly.’ His green eyes shone. He picked up the photo of her father on the bench in the garden, which she kept on the desk, alongside the one of Eva and her mother making a daisy chain, taken at the same time by her grandfather. ‘Your father?’ he asked.
Eva nodded. Everyone said they looked alike, not just in colouring but in her features too.
‘Same dimples.’ Ramon ran his fingers over the picture.
Eva tried not to blush.
‘And your mother?’ He picked up the other photo.
‘Yes. My father was watching us make a daisy chain.’ She shrugged. The photographs might not mean a lot to anyone else, but to her they represented the family past that she had lost. And they were special, because they too were a pair.
Ramon stared at them for a long time.
‘And will you come and go between the two business premises?’ Eva tried to make her voice casual. ‘Between Europe and Mandalay?’ She was trying not to analyse it. But what did this visit mean exactly? He hadn’t said a word to make her think that anything had changed. And did she even want to hope? Seeing him here in Dorset, in her own workshop, just as she had once been in his, she wasn’t sure what she felt. Perhaps she was still in shock.
‘I will have overall responsibility of the two, yes,’ he said.
‘And how is your grandmother, Maya?’ Eva asked. But she knew the answer almost as soon as she spoke.
His expression changed. ‘It was only a few days ago.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured.
‘She rests,’ he said simply. He bowed his head. ‘She rests in peace.’
‘Like Grandpa.’ Maybe they were even resting together.
They looked at one another and then away.
‘More coffee?’
He nodded and she poured.
‘So, where will you—?’
‘I wanted to—’
They both spoke at the same moment, both laughed uncertainly.
‘You first,’ she said.
‘I wanted to write to you, Eva.’ He reached out and took her hand. ‘But there was too much to say.’
She nodded. Was this his way of trying to tell her it had all been a mistake?
‘I told you once that I could promise you nothing.’
She nodded again, trying to smile, but feeling miserable inside. ‘And I told you I didn’t want your promises,’ she reminded him. Just like Maya hadn’t wanted Lawrence’s promises. But that didn’t mean …
‘What were you going to say?’ he asked gently.
‘I was going to ask you where in Europe you were planning to set up your business,’ she said brightly. Though it was an effort.
‘Here,’ he said.
‘In Britain, you mean?’
‘Here in Dorset,’ he said. ‘As close to you as possible. If that is OK.’
She stared at him.
‘It will need someone here to set things up,’ he said. ‘And of course that person should be me.’
‘Of course.’ She beamed back at him, she just couldn’t help it.
‘And now, I think, I can make you that promise,’ he said. ‘If you will let me.’
Eva got up to stand next to him and she gently brushed his dark hair from his brow as she had done before. ‘I’ll let you,’ she said softly.
‘Your emails …?’ He took hold of her hands and got to his feet.
‘There was too much to say.’
He nodded. ‘I hoped that was it.’
Eva looked up at him. Was he really here? She could hardly believe it. And was he going to stay?
‘Those chinthes that brought you and me together must be as powerful as my grandmother always believed,’ he whispered.
‘I think you’re right.’ And then she was in his arms again and his lips were on hers. Tasting as warm and golden as Myanmar itself and of the stories of her childhood, that had so long ago wound their way into her heart.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to my tirelessly supportive agent, Teresa Chris, whose intuition and ‘eye’ I greatly respect and to my talented editor, Jo Dickinson, and all the team at Quercus, especially Kathryn Taussig and Margot Weale. Jo and Teresa have helped me to mould this once unwieldy novel into its present shape and condition, and I am very grateful.
Thanks to the Sams family: Dee for her support; Mervyn and Jean for kindly lending me the memoirs of the late John Sams, in which he wrote about his time in the Gurkhas, training and then fighting in Burma. For John – Gallop, the mule! Thanks to Bill Johnson, who has delighted our Alston Hall writing group with his memoirs of his war in Burma and who was kind enough to read and comment on a section of the novel for me. And most importantly to my husband’s father, the late Peter Innes, who fought in Burma in the Chindits and also worked in the timber industry there. Some of his Burmese artefacts are now in my husband’s possession – including, of course, two chinthes. Although I have used aspects of John and Peter’s lives and experiences in the novel, I must stress that Lawrence’s story is entirely fictional and that none of the characters relate to any of their acquaintances, friends or loved ones!
My late mother-in-law, Hazel Innes, also acquired many books about Burma, which I have used in my research, notably Sue Arnold’s autobiographical A Burmese Legacy, Helen Rodriguez’s autobiography Helen of Burma, H.E.W. Braund’s account of Steel Brothers and Company Ltd in Burma, Calling to Mind and Alan Carter’s Last Out of Burma. Helen of Burma was particularly invaluable to me in writing about Maya’s war. Again, my characters are not related to any real people I have read about here, many details have no doubt been absorbed into this story, but it is fictional and my own.
Of other books I have read during my research, the ones that stood out were The Glass Palace by Amitav Ghosh, which allo
wed me to dip fictionally into the world of the final Burmese dynasty in 1885 – and thanks to Claire Zolkwer for recommending this book to me – and of course George Orwell’s wonderful Burmese Days. The story of the Ngau Mauk ruby is apparently a true one and was derived from information on the internet, as was other material about Burmese rubies and chinthes.
Thanks to my husband’s ‘Burmese family’ especially Suu Suu and Tin Mya and the others we met during our stay in Myanmar in November 2012 such as Ben, the driver who took us to Maymyo. And to other people we met and talked with there who may have made a contribution, thank you too.
Grateful thanks as always to Alan Fish, who read and commented on an early draft of this novel. And to my husband, Grey, who listens to every scene I read to him and always finds something useful to add. As I have said before, he is the best travelling companion a writer can have and a good problem solver to boot. Thanks to my daughters, Alexa and Ana, for answering random queries about language, music and things technical and for their unflagging support of my books. And to my son, Luke, for information about Copenhagen and computer scientists. Thanks to June Tate for her ‘riches of the heart’. Finally, thanks to friends who have supported me during the journey of this novel and to readers who take the trouble to contact me to tell me that they enjoy my books. And to anyone I have forgotten. Thank you all!
The Creative Landscape
Rosanna Ley lives in West Dorset. Here she writes about the relationship between landscape and creativity …
There are little hotspots all over the world to which groups of creative people are drawn. But why? Surely it’s not simply a question of contacts and existing artistic infrastructure – though clearly this helps. Is it something to do with landscape? And if some landscapes provoke more creative responses than others, which kind does it for you?
In the west country of the UK we can do wild and bleak or cute and scenic. We get a lot of rain – but this is why the grass is always greener. There are more writers, musicians, potters, artists, weavers, sculptors and glass blowers here than anywhere else in the UK. And tourists of all nationalities brave our English weather and come in their thousands to visit our galleries, exhibitions, mills, shops and craft centres. But what is it about the landscape that inspires creativity?