Rebecca simply tugged off her dress and, leaving it in a heap on the floor, slid into bed in her underwear. Scarcely a moment later, as Belle was about to open the door and head towards the bathroom, the girl raised her head.
‘Bloody lovely hair you’ve got, an’ I bet it’s natural, that red in it,’ she said, and then she turned over and faced the other way.
Belle smiled to herself. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad sharing with Rebecca after all.
The day before, soon after she’d arrived, Mr Fowler, bursting with self-importance, had given her a tour of the hotel. From the grand entrance hall with its mirrored walls, dark leather sofas, polished hardwood floors and glass coffee tables, he’d led her through to the plush dining rooms. Pale-pink silk lamps dotted the room and paintings of Burma decorated the walls, alongside portraits of dignified white men and their bejewelled women. The tables were already laid with crisp damask tablecloths.
She’d murmured her admiration volubly enough to satisfy him, and in truth she really was impressed, and more than happy to be working there. He’d shown her more of the place, telling her the hotel had been totally renovated in 1927. ‘Of course, I wasn’t here then.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Not long,’ he’d said, brushing her question aside and continuing, ‘We’re the most comfortable, up-to-date hotel in Rangoon – we even have our own post office and a jewellery shop owned by I. A. Hamid and Co.’
A prettily dressed room followed which, he’d told her, served as the breakfast room, doubling later for afternoon tea. She’d glanced at the wicker chairs and dainty place settings. It was nice, she’d thought, with a more relaxed atmosphere than the grand dining room. They were famous for their afternoon teas, he’d said, with a note of pride in his voice.
‘There are sometimes cakes left over for the staff,’ he’d added, smiling magnanimously, as if leftover cake had been bestowed by him alone.
The storerooms came next, then a large high-ceilinged kitchen opened on to a small room where the staff took their meals, and finally they’d ended up where the Strand concert hall had been built behind the annexe, with a girls’ changing room and a small garden behind it.
‘We used to rely on visiting orchestras, dancers and singers. A resident band and performers are a recent thing. We’ve yet to see if things really work out.’
‘Is it only the English who come here?’
He’d nodded, then added, ‘Well, and the Scots. A lot of Scots.’
‘And what about the people who work here? All British?’
‘Course not. We have Indian kitchen boys and you’ve seen the doorman.’
‘No Burmese?’
He’d shaken his head. ‘The Burman – the menial class, I mean – does not like to work.’
‘At all?’
‘For us.’
‘Oh.’
‘There are plenty of the more educated Burmese in governmental departments.’
Here, as in the main building, the public areas were extraordinarily lavish. Once they were back in the entrance hall she’d pointed at the velvety carpeting of the wide staircase sweeping up to the floors above, but he’d shaken his head. ‘Guest bedrooms, suites and lounges,’ he’d said. ‘No need for you to go up there.’ And she had immediately longed to see.
Catching the curious look on her face, he’d pushed open a swing door leading to a dark corridor. After they had gone through he’d taken her right hand in his and placed his other hand on her left shoulder. She’d squirmed out of his hold as he tried to push her back a little. ‘It’s possible for the right girl to see an unoccupied bedroom from time to time, you know, between guests, if you get my drift. Are you one of the right girls, Miss Hatton?’
She’d stepped away from him. ‘I doubt it, Mr Fowler.’
He’d inclined his head and narrowed his eyes slightly before saying, ‘Well, we shall see, shan’t we.’
She wasn’t worried. There had been men like him before.
Now, with a day to herself, ostensibly so she could settle in and generally stake out her bearings before a busy rehearsal the next day, she decided to explore the town. As she came out of the hotel, she nodded at the turbaned doorman and blinked as the haze of dust in the air stung her eyes. She passed the offices of a shipping agent, followed by an ornate red post office, but then, changing her mind, turned back on herself and headed in another direction.
She inhaled the heavy air, bursting with mysterious Eastern scents. What could smell so aromatic, she wondered? Then she paused, listening to temple bells ringing from every direction. In the street, the swarm of rickshaws, bicycles, automobiles and pedestrians forced her to frequently dodge out of the way. Judging by the differing languages she heard – possibly Hindustani as well as Burmese and, of course, English – a broad mix of races lived here. The Indians looked busy and vigorous, the Chinese anxious to sell you their wares, but it was the Burmese who enchanted her. The men smoked cheroots and tilted their heads at her as she passed, and the women, dressed in immaculate pink silky clothing, were tiny and doll-like in their beauty. They wore their hair tightly coiled and decorated with a flower at one side, but she was surprised to see they had painted their faces with some thick yellow stuff. Charmed by the sweetness of their smiles, she grinned back at them. She was fascinated to see that men and women all wore skirts with short jackets – she’d already found out the skirt was called a longyi – although the women’s version was more bunched at the waist. She also noticed the men generally wore pink turbans while the women often seemed to drape a gauzy silk shawl around their shoulders.
Further on a faint odour of drains mingled with the distinctive spicy aromas stemming from the various stalls and traders. She stood at a crossroads and listened to the iron-tyred wheels of the horse-drawn gharries, no more than old-fashioned boxes on wheels for hire, and marvelled at the way past and present coexisted in these streets. After a moment she turned left into Merchant Street.
All along the Strand Road, and beyond, evidence of British building dominated the town, but Belle was yearning for something more thrilling than these monuments to colonialism. She turned right, passing the ornate high court building, where she believed her father must have worked, then she turned again and, with a sharp intake of air, saw what she’d been looking for. This had to be the one they called the Sule Pagoda, smaller than the Shwedagon Pagoda she’d seen from the ship. Delighted to have come across this shining golden apparition in the centre of downtown Rangoon, surrounded by the bustle and noise of everyday life, she stopped to look. The receptionist at the hotel had informed her it was 2,200 years old and had always been at the centre of the city’s social activity.
As she stared, the gold sparkled and shimmered seductively but, dizzied by the scorching heat, she glanced about. She hadn’t remembered a hat or an umbrella, and as the flies buzzed around her face she batted them away and looked for somewhere to have a drink. The tea stands lining the streets looked none too savoury, so where? She looked again and spotted Gloria coming out of Rowe and Co., a large cream and red department store with a corner tower, curved top-floor balconettes and ornate windows. Belle called and waved.
3.
Diana, Cheltenham, 1921
At last I’ve received a letter from Simone. I’m so pleased I could dance about the room. I think of her kind amber eyes, pale blonde hair and peaches-and-cream complexion; remember, too, the terrific fun we had. My doctor’s wife and my best friend in Burma and, although her news is sad, of course it is, for her husband, Roger, has died, she says she’ll be coming back to live in England. Somewhere in Oxfordshire, which isn’t so far. I run downstairs, pick up my gardening scissors and trug from the little hall at the back of the house and nip outside, angling my face upwards for a moment – I love to feel the sun on my skin – and then I cut some roses for the dining room.
I recall the brilliance of the flowers in Burma and my life there, my life! Crammed with excitement and laughter
. Cocktails, dinner parties and those lavish night-long garden parties. The sheer joy of a Parisian silk dress skimming my skin – and my darling husband holding me so tight I felt as if I was the bee’s knees. Then, having drunk too much champagne, watching pink and orange lanterns swaying in the breeze as the sky turned indigo just before dawn.
But oh, the garden, with its perfumed flowers and the huge canopies of trees where monkeys swung in the branches. We both laughed to see them, our arms wrapped around each other, young – well, I was – and so much in love. And our own special secluded place where nobody could see what we did and could never know how my stern upright husband wanted me so much it stopped his breath.
I bring myself to a standstill.
Don’t think about the garden.
4.
Gloria crossed the street, handbag swinging, a broad smile on her face as she strode over. Belle smiled back and Gloria kissed her on the cheek, her film-star lips painted crimson.
‘How’s our little songbird liking Rangoon?’
‘Haven’t had time to see much yet, but yes, I love it. There’s so much going on.’ She paused for a moment and wiped a hand across her brow. ‘But, golly, it’s hot! I was wondering where to go for a drink. I’m dying of thirst.’
‘I know a little place. And, while we’re at it, we’ll buy you a hat. Rowe’s will have one. Just the ticket, I’m sure. While we’re there you must pick up a copy of their catalogue. You can literally get anything.’
‘Sounds terrific.’
‘And it’s beautiful inside. Fans everywhere, cool black-and-white marble floors throughout and only Britishers serving. Harrods of the East, darling.’
Belle grinned. ‘You’re very kind.’
‘My dear, you are misguided. Truth is, you intrigue me. I get so easily bored, you see.’ Her sigh was long and languorous as if to prove her point. ‘And you seem like you need someone to look after you.’
Belle felt she might become something of a toy to the older woman and would as swiftly be put down as picked up, and as for being looked after, she had long been used to looking after herself. Still, if that was what Gloria wanted to think, so be it. She matched her step to Gloria’s and they walked off, crossing the gardens of Fytche Square and turning back on to Merchant Road.
‘The yellow stuff on their faces?’ Belle asked. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s called thanaka. They believe it’s good for the complexion and prevents sunburn too.’
‘Looks terribly drying. Have you tried it?’
‘Not my cup of tea, darling.’
And Belle could see her friend’s chiselled cheeks would never be sullied by native remedies.
Inside the bar, Gloria ordered two long cold Pimm’s.
‘Oh, not alcohol,’ Belle said. She didn’t trust alcohol. If it could change you for the better, it could also change you for the worse. She’d become accustomed to denying herself since the age of eight, when she’d cottoned on that with a little self-control she could eke out a single chocolate bar for longer than anyone. ‘It’s … relatively early,’ she added. ‘Can I have a pot of tea?’
Gloria laughed. ‘Tea! Utterly revolting here unless you like it with condensed milk. I know some do.’
‘Why condensed milk?’
‘The Burman population think it disgusting to milk a cow. Anyway, you wanted a drink and in my book a drink means only one thing.’
Belle gave her a determined look. ‘Just lemonade. Honestly.’
Gloria shook her head and contemplated her with faux sad eyes. ‘You’re missing out. The Pimm’s here is the best in town. But never mind, tell me what you’ve been up to.’
‘Not much. Getting my bearings, really.’
Gloria smiled with a look that suggested she was pleased with herself. ‘Well, I have something to tell you that might well be of interest.’
‘Go on.’
The next evening, before her first performance, Belle was checking the running order in her head while applying her make-up. She stared at her reflection in the brightly lit dressing-room mirror and applied a burgundy lipstick that highlighted the red-gold of her hair, though what she would do with her hair she hadn’t decided. Loose? Up?
Was she feeling nervous? A little, but she’d learnt to use her nerves when she sang. More importantly, she felt a wild new kind of happiness and was absolutely determined to make a good impression. They would be kicking off with some of her favourites – a good omen. She loved Billie Holiday, of course, but also Bessie Smith, the queen of blues. Any of their songs were firm favourites but she’d chosen ‘Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out’ and ‘Careless Love’.
After saying hello to the dancers, she’d been concentrating so hard she hadn’t taken much notice of them changing on the other side of the room. But now she became aware of her name being mentioned in overloud whispers, intended most certainly for her ears. She gave no sign that she’d heard and carried on applying her make-up.
The whispers continued, and Belle worked out they were saying she had only got the job because of her connection with Gloria de Clemente. She twisted round and stared at the scowling faces of the four girls.
‘I barely know her,’ she said with a smile, hoping to dispel the ill humour. ‘Really.’
Rebecca stared at her. ‘You would say that, wouldn’t you? Annie here was in line for the job and then suddenly up you pop, arriving on the same boat as Mrs de Clemente.’
‘And I saw you in a bar with her yesterday,’ the girl called Annie added. ‘Very chummy.’
‘I met Gloria for the first time on the boat.’
‘Gloria, is it? She never lets us call her Gloria.’
Belle felt her anger rise as she got to her feet. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, this is ridiculous. I saw an advert for the job and I applied like anyone else.’
‘Oh yes, and I’m the king of England,’ Rebecca retorted.
Annie snorted with laughter and Belle felt her jaw clench as she spun round to face her. ‘Maybe you didn’t get the job because you bloody well weren’t good enough. Ever occur to you?’
‘Easy for you to say. We’ve seen your type out here be–’
‘My type? You know nothing about me. Nothing!’ Belle felt her cheeks inflame so calmed herself before speaking again. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I have a performance to prepare for.’
She sat down stiffly, trying not to show her upset, and attempted to detach from them. Floating off in her mind had always been her way of escaping conflict and she was good at it. But she had hoped her relationship with her room-mate would be friendlier and the unpleasant exchange bothered her. After a few slow breaths she regained her self-control but couldn’t help worrying that the unpleasantness might harm her performance. Of course, it was exactly why they’d done it. Well, she was blowed if she’d come all this way only to let some vindictive jealous girls ruin things for her. She would go out, smile, and sing her heart out.
5.
Diana, Cheltenham, 1921
As I stare out of the window at Pittville Park and watch the pigeons – small black shapes lining up on the roof of one of the houses on the opposite side of the wide expanse of the park – I hear my daughter calling her father. She must be hungry. I am flooded with energy, so I grab my dressing gown and rush down the three flights of stairs to the bowels of the house. There are eggs and bread, I’m sure. I’ll make her boiled eggs with toast fingers; her favourite. But when I burst into the kitchen, tripping with anticipation, the aroma of beef stew greets me, and I know I’m interrupting when I see her sitting at the scrubbed pine table with Mrs Wilkes, our housekeeper. They are close together, and both stare at me. I blink back at them and want to point out it is me who belongs. Me who has lived here the longest.
My mind switches and the years peel back to the old days when the house belonged to my father and then to me after my mother died from the dreadful influenza. My father went to live in Bantham in Devon where our summer residence was, and he
remains shut away there. He misses my mother and I really did try to visit, until travelling became too tricky. But before, when I was a child, I was happy enough in this old place.
I long to keep that window into a much safer past open for longer, but Mrs Wilkes gets up and as she does the window slams shut and I am jolted back to the present.
‘I stayed on. I hope you don’t mind, madam, but the girl needed feeding.’
I nod at her but feel the judgement in her voice.
‘Darling,’ I say, turning to my child. ‘Would you like me to read your bedtime story tonight?’
She raises her head and looks directly at me. ‘No thank you, Mummy, Daddy has promised to do it.’
I bite my lip and swallow. Then I turn on my heels and head for the stairs, moisture pricking my lids.
People here give me anxious looks and tell me it’s my nerves. Once I heard our housekeeper gossiping with the delivery boy – the delivery boy! ‘She’s a martyr to her nerves.’ But it’s not my nerves: I fear the voice.
Back upstairs in my room the rain is buffeting the window and the park looks bleak as dusk darkens into night. But I can still make out the lights in the houses on the other side of the park, and those little rectangles of gold, shining like beacons, give me hope. I imagine happy families, the husband coming home from work, throwing down his hat and embracing his wife. The children, maybe three of them, scooting down the stairs with cries of, ‘Daddy, my daddy is home.’ And the wife shooing them into the playroom, so Daddy can read his freshly ironed newspaper while enjoying a Laphroaig whisky in peace.
‘Drink, darling?’ she will say, with no idea of the frailty of things.
6.
On the evening of her second performance, before the other girls came back to the dressing room after their first two dances, Belle dipped into her bag for her notebook, then drew out the newspaper clippings. When she’d read the news item the first time she’d been intensely curious and, if she was honest, she still was. A year ago, when her father died, she’d had the unenviable task of packing up his extensive library. The brittle and yellowing newspaper cuttings had been well hidden within a dusty book and if they hadn’t slipped out when Belle was finishing packing, she’d never have known. She had tucked them between the back pages of her own little notebook for safekeeping, and there they had remained. As she read the first of the two clippings again now, she shook her head, still finding it hard to believe.
The Missing Sister Page 2